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EPILOGUE,

Written by James Cobb, Esq and fyoken by Mr. Mvnden in the CharaSer of Primitive.

All things are chang'd since I was last in town,
And all that's in it seems turn'd upside down,
Farewell the stowing wig, the snuff-box, cane,
Emblems of wisdom! ye no longer reign!
Where'er I go, I've some new cause for wonder,
And what's it.il! worse, each hour begets a blunder,

'Twas but last week as travelling to town,
Meaning to give the post-boy half a crown.
The inn being full, all riot, noise and pother,
And really one shock-head's so like another,
I, chancing near Lord Dasliaway to stand,
Whips my half-crown into his Lordship's hand.
His gig he call'd for, dar'd me to deride him;
Then whirl'd away, his servant close beside him;
And there again, ye moderns, I reproach ye,
Once Coachy drove, the Master now drives Coachy.
Courtiers and Citizens, Law, Physic, Trade,
Now are disguis'd in general masquerade,
The cropping system over all prevails,
And horses, like their masters, dock their tails.
Coats are unlkirted—flaps—the waistcoats lose,
And boots cut down, are but high quarter'd stwes,
The very streets, this fashion too refines,
The shopkeepers have taken down their signs.
Nought else, indeed, comes down but these devices;
For tho' they lower their signs, they raise their prices.
O Tempora! O Mores! men and shops,
Horses, boots, coats, and waistcoats—all are crops.
Fashion has times and seasons alter'd quite;
■At dinner-time they breakfast, dine at night.
And—if they can contrive to rife so soon,
A morning's ride, take in the afternoon.

Oar

Our beaux and belles, November's fogs deride;
Enjoy cold weather by the water side;
And then, in Spring, to town return together;
To pass, what they call winter, in warm weather.

To other scenes shall Primitive retire;
There, while I chat, around my social fire;
Tho' oft' o'er Fashion's world shall Fancy range,
One object claims regard, that knows no change;
Envy must own, true to a Briton's name,
That Englisli Heart of Oak, remains the fame.

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A COMEDY,

IN FIVE ACTS.

AS PERFORMED AT THI

THE AT RE-ROYAL> CO VENT-GARDEN.

By FREDERICK REYNOLDS.

A NEW EDITION.

LONDON:

MINTED JT A. STRAIIAN, PRINTIR3-STREET;

FOR T. M. LONGMAN AND O. RKBS, PATBRNOSTSR-KOV.

'I "HE Bards triumphant, of a brighter age,
Unrivall'd Monarchs of the Comic Stage,
Held o'er Wit's empire an unbounded sway.
And taught each subject Province to obey.
Their treasury, Nature's unexhausted mine,
Yielded prompt payment in the purest coin.
And ev'ry note was current thro' the land,
By Farquhar drawn, or Congreve's mightier hand.
They, not for mere accommodation drew,
They had effects whene'er their paper irew.
Their drafts, by all, were anfwer'd by delight,
Indors'd by thousands, and paid down at fight.
Our poverty consents, but not our will.
Our humbler stage with dubious groupes to fill;
With characters, perchance, whose lole existence
Is owing to the Muse';, kind assistance;
Or, drawn from modern lift, scarce boast the power,
On stage, or off, to strut beyond the hour.
All arts beside by sure progression rise.
And win from Time fresh honors as he flies.
But our poor Bard—to scribbling doom'd by fate,
Whose pen, precarious, is his whole estate:
Years following years (kind friends, believe it) will
Wear out the h. It fee-simple of a quill.
The land, {pointing to the bead,) so diff'd by many a former play.
Can ill afford his annual rent to pay.
Yet still he'll toil and toil from night 'till morning,
Till you, his bounteous landlords, give him warning.

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