_Zed._ Yes--and come to bid you farewell--which I wou'd _never_ do, had I not a family in wretchedness till my return--for you shou'd be my master, and I _wou'd_ be your slave.---- _Has._ I thank you--may you meet at home every comfort! _Zed._ May you--may you--what shall I say?--May you once in your life be a prisoner--then released--to feel such joy, as I feel now!---- _Has._ I thank you for a wish, that tells me most emphatically, how much you think I have served you. _Twi._ And, my dear Lord, I sincerely wish you may once in your life, have your head chopped off--just to know what I shou'd have felt, in that situation.---- _Zed._ [_Pointing to_ Haswell.] Are all his country-men as good as he? _Sir Luke._ No-no-no-no--not _all_--but the worst of them are good enough to admire him. _Twi._ Pray Mr. Haswell, will you suffer all these encomiums? _Elv._ He _must_ suffer them--there are virtues, which praise cannot taint--such are Mr. Haswell's--for they are the offspring of a mind, superior even to the love of fame--neither can they, through malice, suffer by applause, since they are too sacred to incite envy, and must conciliate the respect, the love, and the admiration of all. FINIS. EPILOGUE, Written by MILES-PETER ANDREWS, Esq. Spoken by Mrs. MATTOCKS. Since all are sprung, they say, from Mother Earth, Why stamp a merit or disgrace on birth? Yet so it is, however we disguise it, All boast their origin, or else despise it. This pride or shame haunts ev'ry living soul From Hyde-park Corner, down to Limehouse Hole: Peers, taylors, poets, statesmen, undertakers, Knights, squires, man-milliners, and peruke-makers. _Sir Hugh Glengluthglin_, from the land of goats, Tho' out at elbows, shews you all his coats; And rightful heir to _twenty pounds_ per annum, Boasts the rich blood that warm'd his great great grannam; While wealthy Simon Soapsuds; just be knighted, Struck with the sword of state, is grown dim sighted, Forgets the neighbouring chins he used to lather, And scarcely knows he ever had a father. Our Author, then, correct in every line, From nature's characters hath pictur'd mine; For many a lofty fair, who, friz'd and curl'd, With crest of horse hair, tow'ring thro' the world, To powder, paste, and pins, ungrateful grown, Thinks the full periwig is all her own; Proud of her conquering ringlets, onward goes, Nor thanks the barber, from whose hands she rose.