SIR WILL. No, sir, you have been obliged to a kinder, fairer friend for that favour—to Miss Richland. Would she complete our joy, and make the man she has honoured by her friendship happy in her love, I should then forget all, and be as blest as the welfare of my dearest kinsman can make me. MISS RICH. 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 entreaties cannot alter his resolution to quit the country, I will even try if my hand has not power to detain him. _Giving her hand._ HONEYW. 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 WILL. Henceforth, nephew, learn to respect yourself. He who seeks only for applause from without, has all his happiness in another's keeping. HONEYW. 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 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,"