University of Virginia Library

EPILOGUE. Spoken by Mrs. BARRY. Written by Mr. GARRICK.

As it is prov'd, by scholars of great fame,
That Gipsies and Egyptians are the same;
I, from my throne of Memphis, shift the scene,
And of the Gipsies, now step forth the Queen!
Suppose, that with a blanket on my shoulder,
An old strip'd jacket, petticoat still older,
With ebon locks, in wild disorder spread,
The diadem, a clout about my head;
My dingy Majesty here takes her stand,
Two children at my back, and one in hand;
With curtsey thus—and arts my mother taught,
I'll tell your fortunes, as a Gipsey ought:
Too far to reach your palms—I'll mark your traces,
Which fate has drawn upon your comely faces;
See what is written on the outward skin,
And from the title page, know all within:
First, in your faces I will mark each letter—
Had they been cleaner I had seen 'em better;
Yet through that cloud some rays of sun-shine dart,
An unwash'd face oft veils the cleanest heart.
That honest Tar, with Nancy by his side,
So loving, leering, whispers thus his bride,
“I love you Nancy, faith and troth I do,
“Sound as a biscuit is my heart, and true;
“Indeed, dear Johnny, so do I love you.”
Love on, fond pair, indulge your inclination,
You ne'er will know, for want of education,
Hate, infidelity, and separation—
Some Cits I see look dull, and some look gay,
As in Change-Alley they have pass'd the day,
City Barometers!—for as stocks go,
What Mercury they have, is high or low.
What's in the wind which makes that Patriot vere?
He smells a contract or lott'ry next year;
Some Courtiers too I see, whose features low'r,
Just turning patriots, they begin to sour;
What in your faces can a Gipsey see?
Ye Youths of fashion, and of family!
What are we not to hope from taste, and rank?
All prizes in this lottery?—Blank—blank—blank—
Now for the Ladies—I no lines can spy
To tell their fortunes—and I'll tell you why;
Those fine-drawn lines, which would their fate display,
Are, by the hand of fashion, brush'd away;
Pity it is, on beauty's fairest spot,
Where nature writes her best, they make a blot!—
I'd tell our Author's fortune, but his face,
As distant far as India from this place,
Requires a keener sight than mine to view;
His fortune can be only told by you.