You may make a mistake, and think slightly of this. EPITAPH ON THOMAS PARNELL THIS tomb, inscrib’d to gentle Parnell’s name, May speak our gratitude, but not his fame. What heart but feels his sweetly-moral lay, That leads to truth through pleasure’s flowery way! Celestial themes confess’d his tuneful aid; 5 And Heaven, that lent him genius, was repaid. Needless to him the tribute we bestow— The transitory breath of fame below: More lasting rapture from his works shall rise, While Converts thank their poet in the skies. 10 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, 5 As I hope to be saved! without thinking on asses.’ EPITAPH ON EDWARD PURDON HERE lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery freed, Who long was a bookseller’s hack; He led such a damnable life in this world,— I don’t think he’ll wish to come back. EPILOGUE FOR MR. LEE LEWES HOLD! Prompter, hold! a word before your nonsense; I’d speak a word or two, to ease my conscience. My pride forbids it ever should be said, My heels eclips’d the honours of my head; That I found humour in a piebald vest, 5 Or ever thought that jumping was a jest. (_Takes off his mask._) Whence, and what art thou, visionary birth? Nature disowns, and reason scorns thy mirth, In thy black aspect every passion sleeps, The joy that dimples, and the woe that weeps. 10 How has thou fill’d the scene with all thy brood, Of fools pursuing, and of fools pursu’d! Whose ins and outs no ray of sense discloses, Whose only plot it is to break our noses; Whilst from below the trap-door Demons rise, 15 And from above the dangling deities; And shall I mix in this unhallow’d crew? May rosined lightning blast me, if I do! No—I will act, I’ll vindicate the stage: Shakespeare himself shall feel my tragic rage. 20 Off! off! vile trappings! a new passion reigns! The madd’ning monarch revels in my veins. Oh! for a Richard’s voice to catch the theme: ‘Give me another horse! bind up my wounds!—soft— ’twas but a dream.’ Aye, ’twas but a dream, for now there’s no retreating: 25 If I cease Harlequin, I cease from eating. ’Twas thus that Aesop’s stag, a creature blameless, Yet something vain, like one that shall be nameless, Once on the margin of a fountain stood, And cavill’d at his image in the flood. 30 ‘The deuce confound,’ he cries, ‘these drumstick shanks, They never have my gratitude nor thanks;