As puffing quacks some caitiff 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 teased 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 heard 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 placed at happy distance, Give him good words, indeed, but no assistance. As some unhappy wight, at some new play, At the pit door stands elbowing a way, While oft, with many a smile, and many a shrug, He eyes the centre, 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 pitiless storm," Blame where you must, be candid where you can, And be each critic the _Good-natured Man_. * * * * * [Illustration: Seated woman reading a book.] STANZAS ON WOMAN. When lovely woman stoops to folly, And finds too late that men betray, What charm can soothe her melancholy, What art can wash her guilt away? The only art her guilt to cover, To hide her shame from every eye, To give repentance to her lover, And wring his bosom, is—to die. THE CLOWN'S REPLY. John Trott was desired by two witty peers To tell them the reason why asses had ears. "An't please you," quoth John, "I'm not given to letters, Nor dare I pretend to know more than my betters; Howe'er, from this time, I shall ne'er see your graces, As I hope to be saved!—without thinking on asses." * * * * * SONG. The wretch condemn'd with life to part, Still, still on Hope relies; And every pang that rends the heart Bids expectation rise.