'Twas thus that Æsop's stag—a creature blameless, Yet fomething 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 difgraceful! ftrike me dead!'But, for a head-yes, yes, I have a head. 'How piercing is that eye! how fleek that brow! 'My horns!-I'm told horns are the fashion now.' Whilft thus he spoke, astonish'd! to his view, Near and more near, the hounds and huntfinen drew; 'Hoicks! hark forward!' came thund'ring from behind, He bounds aloft, outftrips the fleeting wind: He quits the woods, and tries the beaten ways; He starts, he pants, he takes the circling maze. At length his filly head, fo priz'd before, Is taught his former folly to deplore; Whilft his strong limbs confpire to fet him free, And at one bound he faves himfelf-like me. (Taking a jump through the stage-door.) EPILOGUE TO THE COMEDY OF THE SISTERS. WHAT! five long acts—and all to make us wiser! Our authoress fure has wanted an adviser. Had the confulted me, fhe should have made Have emptied all the green-room on the stage. My life on't, this had kept her play from finking— But how? ay, there's the rub! (paufing) I've got my cue: The world's a masquerade! the masquers,you,you,you. (To Boxes, Pit, and Gallery.) Lud! what a group the motley scene discloses! Mifs, not yet full fifteen, with fire uncommon, Strip but this vizor off, and fure I am Yon patriot, too, who preffes on your fight, If with a bribe his candour you attack, He bows, turns round, and whip-the man in black! Yon critic, too-but whither do I run? If I proceed, our bard will be undone; Well then a truce, since she requests it too— FINIS. |