_Bram_. I profess, Sir _Harry_, a Couple of promising Youths; a Boy shou'd n't be trusted with so much Money; these Persons have seen the World, and know how to employ it----Gentlemen, if your Masters discard you, I'll entertain you. [_Aside_.] I find by their Phis'nomies they'll be rising Men; and tho' they came sneaking into the World, like other People, and paid a Tax for their Births, they'll go out of it a more sublime way, and cheat the Church of their Burials. _Col_. Punish'd they shall be, but 'tis now unseasonable; this Day I'd wish an universal _Jubilee_----What say you to a Dance, good People, my Lady's Servants are all musical. _A DANCE._ Col. _The Wav'ring Nymph, with Pride and Envy sir'd, Ranges the World, to be by all admir'd; Thro' distant Courts, and Climes, she bears her way, And like the Sun, wou'd course 'em in a Day; At length Fatigu'd, she finds those Trifles vain, Meer empty Joys, repeated o'er again: But when by Nature urg'd, weak Fancy fails, And Reason dictating, sound Sense prevails; Wisely she takes the Lover to her Arms, And owns her self subdu'd by Love's more potent Charms._ The EPILOGUE, Spoken by Mrs. _Bradshaw_. _Poets of late so scurrilous are grown, Instead of Courting, they abuse the Town: And when an_ Epilogue _entirely pleases, In thundering Jests, it takes the House to pieces; The_ Pit _smiles when the_ Gallery_'s misus'd, The_ Gallery _sniggers when the_ Pit_'s abus'd_; Side-Boxes _wou'd with Ladies Foibles play, } But they themselves stand Buff to all we say, } For nothing strikes them Dead, but_--Please to pay: } _The_ Upper Regions _angry if pass'd by; But when some wond'rous_ Joke _shall thither fly._ Faith, _Jack_, here's Sense and Learning in this Play, We'll make our Ladies come the _Poet's_ Day. _This Author wou'd by gentler Means persuade you, And rather sooth your Follies than degrade you. Parties may rail, and bully Courtiers Graces, But fawning, well-tim'd Ballads, shou'd get_ Poets _Places. Your Absence lately, how we all have mourn'd; Some pray'd, some fasted too, till you return'd: But now those melancholly Days retire, And eager Wit restrain'd, darts fiercer Fire: Favours unlimited we hope you'll grant us, And not let dear-bought_ Foreigners _supplant us. This_ PLAY, _our Author hopes, may please the Town, } Not that He claims a Merit of his own,_ } But half our_ Comick Bards _are dead and gone. } Things scarce attainable more nice appear_; Coffee _was scarce a Treat, till very dear. To raise his Genius, with some pains he strove, As we in Acting shou'd each Day improve. But as Whims only seem to please this Age, } If Wit and Humour won't your Hearts engage,_ } We'll have a Moving-Picture on the Stage. } _F I N I S._ (final leaf, recto) William Andrews Clark Memorial Library: University of California THE AUGUSTAN REPRINT SOCIETY _General Editors_