Chapter IX: Epilogue: ,

SPOKEN BY MR. LEE LEWIS, IN THE CHARACTER OF HARLEQUIN, AT HIS BENEFIT.

Hold! Prompter, hold! a word before your nonsense: I'd speak a word or two, to ease my conscience. My pride forbids it ever should be said My heels eclipsed the honours of my head; That I found humour in a piebald vest, Or ever thought that jumping was a jest.

[_Takes off his mask._

Whence, and what art thou, visionary birth? Nature disowns, and reason scorns, thy mirth; In thy black aspect every passion sleeps, The joy that dimples, and the woe that weeps. How hast thou fill'd the scene with all thy brood Of fools pursuing, and of fools pursued! Whose ins and outs no ray of sense discloses, Whose only plot it is to break our noses; Whilst from below the trap-door demons rise, And from above the dangling deities. And shall I mix in this unhallow'd crew? May rosin'd lightning blast me if I do! No—I will act—I'll vindicate the stage: Shakespeare himself shall feel my tragic rage. Off! off! vile trappings! a new passion reigns: The madd'ning monarch revels in my veins. Oh! for a Richard's voice to catch the theme,— "Give me another horse! bind up my wounds!—soft—'twas but a dream." Ay, 'twas but a dream, for now there's no retreating, If I cease Harlequin, I cease from eating. 'Twas thus that Æsop's stag, a creature blameless, Yet something vain, like one that shall be nameless, Once on the margin of a fountain stood, And cavill'd at his image in the flood. "The deuce confound," he cries, "these drumstick shanks, They never have my gratitude nor thanks; They're perfectly disgraceful! strike me dead; But for a head, yes, yes, I have a head: How piercing is that eye! how sleek that brow! My horns!—I'm told horns are the fashion now." Whilst thus he spoke, astonish'd, to his view, Near, and more near, the hounds and huntsmen drew; Hoicks! hark forward! came thundering from behind, He bounds aloft, outstrips the fleeting wind: He quits the woods, and tries the beaten ways; He starts, he pants, he takes the circling maze: At length, his silly head, so prized before, Is taught his former folly to deplore; Whilst his strong limbs conspire to set him free, And at one bound he saves himself—like me.

[_Taking a jump through the stage door._

AN ELEGY

ON THE GLORY OF HER SEX, MRS. MARY BLAIZE.

Good people all, with one accord,
Lament for Madam Blaize,
Who never wanted a good word—
From those who spoke her praise.

The needy seldom pass'd her door,
And always found her kind;
She freely lent to all the poor—
Who left a pledge behind.

She strove the neighbourhood to please
With manners wond'rous winning;
And never follow'd wicked ways—
Unless when she was sinning.

At church, in silks and satins new,
With hoop of monstrous size,
She never slumber'd in her pew—
But when she shut her eyes.

Her love was sought, I do aver,
By twenty beaux and more;
The king himself has follow'd her—
When she has walk'd before.

But now, her wealth and finery fled,
Her hangers-on cut short all;
The doctors found, when she was dead—
Her last disorder mortal.

Let us lament in sorrow sore,
For Kent Street well may say,
That had she liv'd a twelvemonth more—
She had not died to-day.

* * * * *

EPIGRAM,

ON A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH STRUCK BLIND BY LIGHTNING.

Sure 'twas by Providence design'd,
Rather in pity than in hate,
That he should be, like Cupid, blind,
To save him from Narcissus' fate.