Chapter VIII: Epilogue: ,

BY

Mr. _BYROM_.

Enter _Hurlothrumbo_.

_Ladies and Gentlemen, my Lord of_ Flame
_Has sent me here to thank you in his Name;
Proud of your Smiles, he’s mounted many a Story
Above the tip-top Pinnacle of Glory:
Thence he defies the Sons of Clay, the Criticks;
Fellows, says he, that are meer Paralyticks,
With Judgments lame, and Intellects that halt,
Because a Man outruns them——they find fault.
He is indeed, to speak my poor Opinion,
Out of the reach of_ critical _Dominion._

[Enter _Critick_.]

_Adso! her’s one of ’em._——Cr. _A strange odd Play, Sir_;

[Enter _Author_, pushes _Hurlothrumbo_ aside.

Au. _Let me come to him——Pray, what’s that you say, Sir?_

Cr. _I say, Sir, Rules are not observ’d here._——Au. _Rules,
Like Clocks and Watches, were all made for Fools.
Rules make a Play? that is_——Cr. _What, Mr. Singer?_

Au. _As if a Knife and Fork should make a Finger._

Cr. _Pray Sir, which is the_ Hero _of your Play?_

Au. _Hero! why they’re all Heroes in their way._

Cr. _Why here’s no_ Plot! _or none that’s understood._

Au. _There’s a Rebellion tho’; and that’s as good._

Cr. _No Spirit nor Genius in’t._ Au. _Why didn’t here A_ SPIRIT _and a_ GENIUS _both appear?_

Cr. _Poh, ’tis all Stuff and Nonsense_——Au. _Lack-a-day!
Why that’s the very_ Essence _of a Play,
Your Old-House, New-House, Opera and Ball;
’Tis_ NONSENSE, Critick, _that supports ’em all.
As you yourselves ingeniously have shown,
Whilst on their Nonsense you have built your own._

Cr. _Here wants——Wants what! Why now for all your canting,
What one Ingredient of a Play is wanting?
Musick, Love, War, Death, Madness without Sham,
Done to the Life, by_ Persons _of the_ Dram:
_Scenes and Machines, descending and arising;
Thunder and Lightning; ev’ry thing surprizing!_

Cr. _Play, Farce, or Opera is’t?_ Au. _No matter whether,
’Tis a_ REHEARSAL _of ’em all together.
But come Sir, come, troop off, old Blundermonger,
And interrupt the_ Epilogue _no longer._

[_Author_ drives the _Critick_ off the Stage.

Hurlo _proceed_——

Hurlo. _Troth! he says true enough,
The Stage has given rise to wretched Stuff:
Critick, or Player; a_ Dennis, _or a_ Cibber,
_Vie only which shall make it go down glibber;
A thousand murd’rous ways they cast about
To stifle it——but Murder-like——’twill out.
Our Author fairly, without so much Fuss
Shews it—in_ puris Naturalibus;
_Pursues the Point beyond its highest Height, }
Then bids his Men of Fire, and Ladies bright, }
Mark, how it looks!——When it is out of Sight. }
So true a_ Stage, _so fair a Play for Laughter,
There never was before, nor ever will come after:
Never, no never; not while vital Breath,
Defends ye from that_ long-liv’d Mortal _Death.
Death!——something hangs on my prophetick Tongue,
I’ll give it utterance——be it right or wrong_:
Handel _himself shall yield to_ Hurlothrumbo,
_And_ Bononcini _too shall cry_——Succumbo.
_That’s if the Ladies condescend to smile:
Their Looks make Sense, or Nonsense, in our Isle._