University of Virginia Library

Gay, as the belle, who lightens down the ball,
While half, who gaze, can scarcely move at all;
Pert, as the elf, who, at a tonsor's shop,
Pops in a phantom, and pops out a fop;
As vain, as beauty, and as fashion, witty,
A tooth-pick Epilogue should lounge the city:
And prattle, comme il faut,—with nought to say,
A world of words—the newest kind of way!

Such was dame Epilogue, when blithe and young,
Of every belle she was herself the tongue;
Then, a whole peerage would a play engage,
If she but simpered, “All the world's a stage,”
But now, in vain she sports her ancient airs,
For all the “men and women” have turned “players.”
Such is the strife among the motley rout,
They strip the actors, while they turn them out.
From Shakespeare's wardrobe each a fragment snatches,
And bustles through his part—in “shreds and patches!”
All loud alike, none perfect but in scraps,
They all gesticulate, but no one claps.
Puns by descent, are wit by common law;
And every foundling bon mot knows papa!
No prompter checks the jargon universal,
For Life's a Spouting Club,—without rehearsal.

The smart frizeur, who deals in tropes and strops,
Exclaims—“a frost, a killing frost,”—in crops!
And vents, at fashion's cue, all cues to doff,
“A deep damnation on their taking off!!”
The fop demurs—“to be or not to be;”
“Off with his head!” roars Bobadil, and clips—a flea!
“We fly by night!”—while boasts the swindling spark,
Tipstaff “peeps through the blanket of the dark!
“My bond,—I'll have my bond,”—old Foreclose cries;
“Who steals my purse steals trash,”—the bard replies;
“Out, damned spot!” snarls old Miss Pimple Fret;
“There's rue for you,”—whispers her arch soubrette.
The love-sick cook-maid lisps—hist, Romeo, hist!”
“And snip,—the tailor,—rants, “List, list, oh! list!”

While thus the stage is filled with masquerade,
And bankrupt Thespis mourns his plundered trade,
What, if in turn,—'tis justice fairly due,—
The actor's eye-glass takes a squint at you!

Sir Fopling Classick is a wight, I ween,
Who reads to quote, and dresses to be seen;
The prince of folly, and the fool of wit,
He plots a dinner, to campaign a hit;
With well-drest wisdom, tout à fait he looks,
The sage of fashion and bon-ton of books.
In scenick unities so strict is he,
Time, place and action—touch and take rappee!
Anon, heigho! his critick sneeze emphatick,
Proclaims the raptures of effect dramatick.
In life's great play—no Stagyrite to shine—
His plot is woman, and his moral wine.
Thus with a muse, a mistress and a bottle,
Gay Skeffington surmounts grave Aristotle.

His own reverse, and yet himself the time,
A bard in powder, and a beau in rhyme;—
A man of coral,—such are fashion's powers!
A plant of stone,—that vegetates and flowers;
A fragrant exhalation,—raised to fade,—
From roseate rhetorick, and rose pomade;—
A sweet confection, fit for love or—tea,
A lettered lozenge,—stuffed—poeticé;—
Sir Fopling dashes, while his goblet pours,
And who can doubt, an empty glass encores!
His tropes and figures into ferment whipt,
See, in the froth of words, his tube is dipt!
The bubble floats,—from classick suds refined,—
It shines—it bursts—and leaves no foam behind!
Choice spirits all—his scavoir vivre club
Have tickled trouts, and sure may hook a chub!

Who delves to be a wit, must own a mine,
In wealth must glitter, ere in taste he shine;
Gold buys him genius, and no churl will rail,
When feasts are brilliant, that a pun is stale.
Tip wit with gold;—each shaft with shouts is flown;—
He drinks Campaign, and must not laugh alone.
The grape has point, although the joke be flat!
Pop! goes the cork!—there's epigram in that!
The spouting bottle is the brisk jet d' eau,
Which shows how high its fountain head can throw!
See! while the foaming mist ascends the room,
Sir Fopling rises in the vif perfume!

But ah! the classick knight at length perceives
His laurels drop with fortune's falling leaves.
He vapours cracks and clenches as before,
But other tables have not learnt to roar.
At last, in fashion bankrupt, as in pence,
He first discovers undiscovered sense—
And finds,—without one jest in all his bags,—
A wit in ruffles is a fool in rags!

Lorn through the lobby see the Poet steal,
Fregetting life, while he can live to feel;
To blank oblivion yielding private woe,
While publick virtue gives one tear to flow;
And, charmed with fiction, that her sorrows bless,
His fancy riots in the loved distress.
But ah!—illusion sweet of tears and smiles,
Where virtue revels, while romance beguiles,
What cheerless hours doth destiny delay,
Till recollected life returns with day!—
When he, who wanders with a poet's name,
Must live on friendship, while he starves on fame!

Blest be the bard, whose tender tale inspires
The passioned scene with virtue's holiest fires;
Who draws from brightest eyes the moistened soul
And bids their tributes glitter, as they roll!
To moral truth when loveliest grace is given,
The smile of Beauty is a ray from heaven;—
Soft as the fairy web, Arachne weaves
To ward the night-dew from the lily's leaves;
Chaste as the pity of Aurora's tears,
When the web trembles with the pearl it bears.

Yon dapper Dash—who screens the lobby fire—
Is doughty Peter Paragraph, Esquire,—
Forever knowing—and forever known,—
The gay Court Calender—of all the town.
His brilliant fancy wings such rapid flights,
That his pen flashes,—like the northern lights!
On fashion's face he marks each patch and pimple,—
Notes all the Belle Assemble—to a dimple!
Keeps dates of wrinkles—sets each freckle down,—
And knows the age of each old maid in town!
—Puff, and Post Obit,—naught is he perplexed on,—
And, Death or Marriage,—he is Clerk or Sexton!
Whate'er the theme,—his is the quill to grace it,—
From “consumatum est”—to grave—“hic jacet!”
Wherever folly lies—in wise perdue,—
Quick as heat lightning—and as harmless too,
He splinters words, as gamesters rattle dice,
And sparkles, like a man, who chops on ice.
In daily lounge, Cornhill pavé he passes,
To study signs, and ogle looking glasses!
His spleen—at vulgar gutters—never rankles;
He thanks their mud—for every pair of ankles!
Nor thinks,—while feasting on caprice and whim,—
One grace too naked, or one fop too slim!
Belles, beaux, and blankets,—tiffanies and teas,—
He borrows all he knows, from all he sees.
Then home for fame,—to scribble to be sure,—
For every traveller must write a tour;—
He gives the world the gleanings of his ramble,
As nuts are thrown to monkies,—for a scramble!

Eh!—I've a full length Critick in my eye!
Shall I or not?—He'll catch me, or I'd try!
Egad, I'm in for't!—see, he's at me too!
Pray, Sir, turn round,—I'll take a profile view.
Nay!—nouns and pronouns save such want of grace!
A Poet look a critick in the face!
Such courage ne'er was known 'mong rhyming elves,
Since they, who're criticks now, wrote tags themselves.
Streams, when neglected, sink to common sewers,
And disappointed Authors turn Reviewers!
Like stagnant pools, they breathe putrescent air,
From the green film, their fetid bosoms bear.
Fie!—frown not,—WE, who catch the trick of faces,
Must rouse the passions, to excite the graces:
Now,—in what Act, Sir, was our—epitasis?
The busy, bustling action of our play?
“The scenes with Abigail”—ha! there you say!—
“The eyes of beauty beamed with lightning there,”
“When hopeless virtue proudly spurned despair.”
Caught by a twinkle from “the eye of beauty!”
A Critick too!—most Stocick Sir,—my duty.—
Nature will break,—encase her how you will,—
A Cat in pattens is Grimalkin still.
But soft, he speaks—“An Epilogue may sport
“With a broad patent, like a fool at court;
“But while you laugh by text, and rail by rote,
“Your author's fable has our warmest vote.”—
I thank you, Sir,—I'll have that down by note.
“His Hero needs no advocate at bar;—
“We see his virtues in its native spar!
Now,—what of Sindal?—How did he appear?
“Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear!”
“In crime accomplished, and in wit refined,
“His very genius blurred the grace of mind.”
But what of Gripe?—“Such knaves elude the law,
“And live, like leeches, on the blood they draw.
“When Gripe the balance with his conscience made,
“He kept his vices, as his stock in trade.—
“Spawned in the alley, by its logick reared,
“He shaves a note, as Smallpeace shaves a beard;
“And both so well their office understand,
“They trim you smooth,—and yet conceal the hand!”

Oh! what is man, who, thus debased by pelf,
All human nature sinks in human self;
Who basely pilfers, with unfeeling joy,
A mother's picture from an artless boy!
When man's deserting soul forsakes his breast,
To pine a death-watch in a miser's chest,
The starving hypocrite allegiance swears,
To gold and grace, to poverty and prayers;
And, not one joy his flickering lamp to cheer,
Lives without love, and dies without a tear!
Such are the, “Gripes,” the meanest of their tribe,
Who cheat themselves, and chuckle at the bribe;
Who bury nature, ere her mortal doom,
And drag existence in a living tomb.

In life's dark cell, pale burns their glimmering soul;
A rush-light warms the winter of the pole.
To chill and cheerless solitude confined,
No spring of virtue thaws the ice of mind.
They creep in blood, as frosty streamlets flow,
And freeze with life, as dormice sleep in snow.
Like snails, they bear their dungeons on their backs,
And shut out light,—to save a window tax!

Not so gay Cœlebs lives, nor wife, nor child,
E'er blessed his arms, or on his bounty smiled;
Yet, touched by nature, his affections glow,
And claim their kindred to the man of woe.
Mid wine and mirth while rolls his daily round,
The secret want, the meek distress is found;
Silent as light, and, like its source, serene.—
His bounty gives unknown, and warms unseen.
He feels, while tears the sacred joy confess,
Man likens God, when he has power to bless.

Criticks there are, who boast a noble race;
Who twine with genius every lettered grace;
Candid to censure, generous to commend,
The polished scholar, and the faithful friend,
Loved by the Muse, they feel the poet's fire,
And soothe the minstrel, while they tune his lyre;
On private merit, publick fame they raise,
For every Nation shares its Author's praise.