APPENDIX:

CONTAINING THE

AUTHOR'S CONVERSATION WITH HIS BOOKSELLER, &c.

SCENE-London, a ВOOKSELLER'S Shop.

Enter AUTHOR, smiling and rubbing his Hands.

AUTHOR.

WELL, SLIDER!—and how d'ye go on with

I knew it would answer the trouble I took.

my book?

I hope that you like my collection of rhymes ;-
Don't you think 'tis a neat little touch on the times?

SLIDER.

Run, boy-can't you see that Miss BARBARA SLOP,

And my Lady BONTON, are come into the shop?

AUTHOR.

The copies I sent were but eighty-five score,
And I took it for granted you wanted some more:

So I call'd, Mr. SLIDER, on that supposition,

Before I came out with my second edition.

SLIDER.

And another great wit is arriv'd, I declare,

Mr. TIGHTBOOT is just stepping out of his chair.

Enter Lady BONTON, Miss BARBARA SLOP, and the Hon. Mr. TIGHTBOOT.

LADY BONTON.

Mr. SLIDER, you've nothing that's clever, I doubt;

No book that's engaging and pretty come out.

What an age of barbarians! there's nothing, G-d knows,

That's worth one's attention, in verse or in prose.

AUTHOR, to himself.

Now I wonder that blockheadly fellow won't mention My book, which, I'm sure, would engage her attention. How happy, how snug, should I sit here alone,

And feel such delight as few authors have known!

To be read and admir'd by the wits of the age,

And view 'em with raptures turn over my page!

MISS BAB.

I'm quite cast away, my dear Lady BONTON,
I'm afraid I must pass all this ev'ning alone:
I wish on some pretty short thing I could light,
I'd give it a thorough perusal to-night.

LADY BONTON

Well! I own there is nothing I meet with too long,

That's manly and spirited, nervous and strong;

Yet tender and delicate joys can impart,

And with sweet sensibility touches my heart.

SLIDER.

Then, Madam, here's something will please the peruser,

"A Pindaric Epistle address'd to a Bruiser."

LADY BONTON.

O for shame, Mr. SLIDER! you'll make us quite sick;
Mr. TIGHTBOOT condemn'd all that trash to Old Nick.
What a vulgar performance! what Bear-garden writing!
-I protest it has set all my children a-fighting.

MR. TIGHTBOOT.

Why, egad, if to wit there be any pretension,
I swear it is far above my comprehension.
What damn'd unaccountable lies has he told,
Of dragons, and lions, and jockies of old!
I'm sure that he rode but a bitter bad horse,
For he flogg'd him most d-mn-bly over the course.
Pray where is his moral? or what was his object,
In chusing that horrible wretch for his subject?

A scoundrel like that is a scandal to ink

MISS BAB.

The subject's as good as the verse, Sir, I think:
Besides, he don't give us the least intimations,
What he means by his impudent insinuations.

LADY BONTON.

No-I wish that I knew who the person implied is,

In a certain account that he gives of ALCIDES:
I've try'd-but I can't make the least application
To any one man that I know in the nation.

MISS BAB.

Ma'am, the thing of all others he gives me the spleen in,

Is, the bringing in POLLUX,-without any meaning.

AUTHOR.

Racks! tortures! damnation! death! hell! and confusion!

They have no kind of taste for a classic allusion!

(Aside)