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Honeywood. How have I been deceived !

Sir William. No, Sir, you have been obliged to a kinder, fairer friend for that favor. To Miss Richland. Would she complete our joy, and make the man she has honored by her friendship happy in her love, I should then forget all, and be as blest as the welfare of iny dearest kinsman can make me.

Miss Richland.

After what is past it would be but affectation to pretend to indifference. Yes, I will own an attachment, which I find was more than friendship. And if my intreaties cannot alter his resolution to quit the country, I will even try if my hand has not power to detain him.

[Giving her hand,

Honeywood. Heavens ! how can I have deserved all this? How express my happiness, my gratitude ! A moment like this overpays an age of apprehension.

Croaker.

Well, now I see content in every face'; but heaven send we be all better this day three months !

Sir William. Henceforth, nephew, learn to respect yourself. He who seeks only for applause from without, has all his. happiness in another's keeping.

Honeywood. Yes, Sir, I now too plainly perceive my errors : my vanity in attempting to please all, by fearing to offend any; my meanness in approving folly lest fools should disapprove. Henceforth, therefore, it shall be my study to reserve my pity for real distress; my friendship for true merit ; and my love for her, who first taught me what it is to be happy.

EPILOGUE. *

SPOKEN BY

MRS. BULKLEY.

As puffing quacks some catiff wretch procure

To swear the pill, or drop, has wrought a cure;
Thus on the stage, our play-wrights still depend
For Epilogues and Prologues on some friend,
Who knows each art of coaxing up the town,
And make full many a bitter pill go down.
Conscious of this, our bard has gone about,
And teaz'd each rhyming friend to help him out.
An epilogue, things can't go on without it;
It could not fail, would you but set about it.
Young man, cries one, (a bard laid up in clover)
Alas, young man, my writing days are over ;
Let boys play tricks, and kick the straw, not I;
Your brother doctor there, perhaps, may try.
What I ! dear Sir, the doctor interposes :
What, plant my thistle, Sir, among his roses
No, no, I've other contests to maintain ;
To night I head our troops at Warwick-lane.
Go ask your manager-Who me! Your pardon:
Those things are not our forte at Covent-garden.
Our author's friends, thus plac'd at happy distance,
Give him good words indeed, but no assistance.

* The author, in expectation of an Epilogue from a friend at Oxford, deferred writing one himself

till the very last hour. What is here offered, owes all its success to the graceful manner of the actress who spoke it.

As some unhappy wight at some new play,
At the pit door stands, elbowing away,
While oft, with many a smile, and many a shrug,
He eyes the center, where his friends sit

snug ;
His simpering friends, with pleasure in their eyes,
Sink as he sinks, and as he rises, rise :
He nods, they nod : he cringes, they grimace ;
But not a soul will budge to give him place.
Since then, unhelp'd, our bard must now conform
“ To 'bide the pelting of this pit'less storm,”
Blame where you must, be candid where you can,
And be each critic the Good-natur'd Man.

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