University of Virginia Library

EPILOGUE TO THE POOR LODGER.

Enter Harriet.
With anxious heart, that beats for perils past,
Your happy Harriet now comes home, at last:
A home, indeed! where oft, each generous mind
With fame has cheered her, and with taste refined:
Where first, her powers indulgent to disclose,
You op'd the petals of the budding rose;
Bade the young stalk, with trembling blossoms, rise,
Warmed by your beams, though foreign to your skies,
And placed,—oh, grateful joy! with fondest care,
The fostered flow'ret in your own parterre!

Enter Sir Harry.
Sir Har.
Sure, such a flower would flourish, any where?

Har.
Gallant, Sir Harry—

Sir Har.
—Harley, happy lover!
But I, as happy, am for life,—

Har.
—a rover—
Forever on a voyage,—

Sir Har.
—that ne'er is over.

Har.
Spoke like a gownsman—

Sir Har.
—No, I scorn the schools,
Wit may be wisdom, but all wits are fools.

Har.
The slaves of fools—the most unlucky elves—
Life's feast they cater—

Sir Har.
—but ne'er eat themselves—
One bliss they have, all other joys, above—

Enter Lord Harley.
L. Har.
What's that, Sir Harry?—

Sir Har.
(With allusion.)
—To be blest in love.

L. Har.
And none should envy, whom the fair approve.

Sir Har.
(Assuming himself.)
White hours attend you—I bang up—Adieu!
Ask not my rout—for none I ever knew—
And yet there's one I always shall pursue—
(Mimicking.)
Cross channel, take chaise, down glass, look profound—
“Eh!—I say—Coachee—whither am I bound?”
[Going off; noise without, between the Widow and Joblin. Sir Harry looking out.
Prime!—Our old widow sparring like Mendoza!

Widow entering, and Joblin.
Wid.
Not I! don't think I'll pay—

Job.
—Dick's fortin—

Wid.
—No, Sir,
Mai fois! (Bridling.)


Job.
I'll charge it, then, as I'm—

Dick.
(Popping in.)
—a grocer.

Job.
Dick, claim your rights, and don't stand there a grinning—

Wid.
You marry Harriet—

Dick.
—Yes—I'm very winning—
I courted purely—

Job.
—put on all his graces—
And looked and talked—

Dick.
—as fine as aunty's lace is.

Sir Har.
And sighed, no doubt, as sweet as father's mace is.

Wid.
No wife, no fortune—

Sir Har.
—what a city drove!

Dick.
Then I be certain, I be crossed in love—

L. Har.
Ne'er mind it, Dick, 'tis no great odds in life,
To lose a fortune, or,—

Job.
—to gain a wife—

Sir Har.
(Who has been reconnoitering the Widow.)
Pray, did this gay antique ere chance to pop
Within the purlieus of a frizeur's shop?

Wid.
Did'st ever see, the making—

Sir Har.
—of—

Dick.
—a fop!

Sir Har.
Prime and bang up!—Why, widow, Dick's a wit;
Give him the fortune, he'll have need of it!

Job.
Nay, fear not, Dick—be witty as you will—
I wrote a rebus once—

Dick.
—who nibbed the quill?

L. Har.
(To Widow Danvers, who has been talking apart with him. At the same time Poor Lodger enters above.)
Your generous offer I can ne'er reprove;
But I have wealth enough in Harriet's love.

Har.
(Advancing.)
Nay, since a fortune be in search of owners,

P. Lodg.
(Coming down.)
Adopt our author, and be you the donors! (To the audience.)

Fortune, who feeds all other fools on earth,
Was never present at a Poet's birth!
The oaf of Nature all her care partakes;
The child of mind she smiles on, and forsakes.
And though each Muse has sought her fond regard—

Job.
She ne'er would stand godmother to a bard.

P. Lodg.
Each well-dressed driv'ler lettered fame exacts,

Sir Har.
Well!—Books are lettered only on their backs.
There's pedigree in dress; none else has charms;
A coat of fashion is a coat of arms!

P. Lodg.
Hence the wise world, not wiser than of old,
That toiling chemist, still extracting gold,
Neglecting still Wealth's noblest use and end,
To polish man, and social life defend,
Calls sacred genius Nature's waste of pains,
The gift of Fortune—

Job.
(Who has been fidgetting.)
—Cures the want of brains!

Wid.
There, Dick—

Sir Har.
—Conclusive—

Dick.
—Father, don't you sham?

Job.
I'll prove, by ledger—

Dick.
—what a wit I am.

Har.
Since then a wit yourself with wealth; to spare it,
Reward our Poet—

Job.
—he shall have our garret!

Dick.
No father—had “Poor Lodgers” there, enough.

Sir Har.
What would your wisdom, then?—

Dick.
—write him a Puff!

Har.
Truce to our trifling;—now, our author craves
That just decision, which condemns, or saves.

P. Lodg.
(Coming forward.)
A father, rescued by a child, disowned—

Har.
Has, by his kindness, every fault atoned.

L. Har.
We all are wanderers—all mistake our way—

P. Lodg.
Yet faithful Nature never goes astray.
Life's a great Inn; and each is but a guest;
Beneath this roof, then, let us take our rest.
And while, to errors past, I drop a tear—

Har.
May our “Poor Lodger” find a welcome, here!