Cr. _Here wants——Wants what! Why now for all your canting, What one Ingredient of a Play is wanting? Musick, Love, War, Death, Madness without Sham, Done to the Life, by_ Persons _of the_ Dram: _Scenes and Machines, descending and arising; Thunder and Lightning; ev’ry thing surprizing!_ Cr. _Play, Farce, or Opera is’t?_ Au. _No matter whether, ’Tis a_ REHEARSAL _of ’em all together. But come Sir, come, troop off, old Blundermonger, And interrupt the_ Epilogue _no longer._ [_Author_ drives the _Critick_ off the Stage. Hurlo _proceed_—— Hurlo. _Troth! he says true enough, The Stage has given rise to wretched Stuff: Critick, or Player; a_ Dennis, _or a_ Cibber, _Vie only which shall make it go down glibber; A thousand murd’rous ways they cast about To stifle it——but Murder-like——’twill out. Our Author fairly, without so much Fuss Shews it—in_ puris Naturalibus; _Pursues the Point beyond its highest Height, } Then bids his Men of Fire, and Ladies bright, } Mark, how it looks!——When it is out of Sight. } So true a_ Stage, _so fair a Play for Laughter, There never was before, nor ever will come after: Never, no never; not while vital Breath, Defends ye from that_ long-liv’d Mortal _Death. Death!——something hangs on my prophetick Tongue, I’ll give it utterance——be it right or wrong_: Handel _himself shall yield to_ Hurlothrumbo, _And_ Bononcini _too shall cry_——Succumbo. _That’s if the Ladies condescend to smile: Their Looks make Sense, or Nonsense, in our Isle._ [Illustration]