University of Virginia Library

THE EPILOGUE. Made by a Friend, and Spoken by Mr. Mills.

Our Poet wanting some kind Friend in Vogue,
To give you the Desert of Epilogue;
His Stock being Spent, has sent me here to borrow
Of you some Wit to write one for to morrow.
Stay let me see—Where shall I find this Wit?
Gad I'm affraid to venture on the Pit.
What if I hunted in the Side Box Rows?
But who wou'd seek for wit among the Beaux?
O! there's a twisted Stinkirk—but his Wits plac'd
Preposterously from his Chin down to his Waste.
Below his head, if any where, I'm sure
His Brain can nothing but Pulvils endure.
There's one well powder'd, gad and be looks bigg—
And yet his Head is empty in a full Wigg.
I know him—he's an old Half-Act Peeper,
A true Friend—I mean to our Door-keeper.
To plunder there's a sin of that degree
'Twou'd come within the Act of Immortality
But there's a Cit—I'm sure that he has None—
At least to spare—Unless upon a Loan,
And to begg there is a too vile Disgrace—
For City Security's writ upon his Face.
His Wit besides, another Way is Bent,
As how t'evade some Act of Parliament.
O! now I've found it—And he can't withstand it—
Death! 'tis a Soldier! and his Wit's disbanded.
No Beaux? no Wit! no sharper left to spark it,
What a Plague are they all gone to New Market?
Since he in vain here to the Men wou'd Sue,
Our Poet, Ladies, throws himself on You;
His Inspiration seeks from your bright Eyes,
Those Charms wou'd make the dullest Spirits Rise.