Sapling. Mrs. Sapling! my life! my-that's a good fign-filence is a proof of love.

Mrs. Sapling. Indeed then I fancy few married ladies are in love-but I'm too well bred to wrangle; fo, there

Sapling. And there. (Shaking bands.)

Henry. And now henceforward copy me, uncle; -think not of any Arabellas; or if you do-be it to pity those who, but for men's feducing arts, had known, like us, the bliss of virtuous love.

Honoria.

Then crown our pleasures with your genial praise, Blame not our Blunders, pardon our Delays,

All aid my fuit. (to HENRY.)

Henry.

Let me your favour court;

A married failor begs you won't fpoil sport.

Sapling.

So does a fox-hunter (recollecting and looking at
Mrs. SAPLING) a finifh'd man.
Mrs. Sapling.

Aye, ladies, look-refufe him if you can,

Mrs. St. Qrme.

And we entreat you—

Paul.

Yes, and Paul Postpone.

Your fmiles are fees for all his labours done.
Each cheering nod demonftrates he has great fenfe,
And every clap's a glorious fix and eight pence;
Then, take the hint, and spite of critic laws,
We'll to an English Jury truft our cause.

1

EPILOGUE,

WRITTEN BY MILES PETER ANDREWS, Esq.

SPOKEN BY MRS. MATTOCKS.

ONCE more I come my fervices to tender,
Will you once more receive an old offender?
Who, arm'd with Epilogue's farcastic strain,
Hath often here indolg'd her fportive vein;
Hath Fashion's fanction'd ftore prefum'd to rifle,
And with your fav'rite follies dared to trifle.
Our Play concluded, fhall I humbly fue,
As Epilogue of old was wont to do?
Or, heedless of the Poet and his trade,
Frolic at random, and cry, Who's afraid?
Balloons are now the hobbies that engage;

Certain criterion of a foaring age.

The flighty heroine, and the dashing fair,
Whole characters are rather worse for wear,

May icorn dull fqueamish prudes, ftiff laced and curl'd,

Mount a Balloon, and rise above the world.

How fine th' idea!. By the winds alone,

Not by old dowagers to be blown upon.
But while on air so pleasantly we rise,

Things better hid, perhaps, may meet our eyes.
GILES GRUB the grocer, failing o'er his fhop,
His eye may thro' his parlour skylight pop:
"Good Mounfhur Flyaway! do let me out ;
"Dickens! what's duck and journeyman about?

The compter's left-fpoufe does fo love to chat-
"She'll now do nothing else."-" No fear of dat.
"Allons-de French philofophie you learn-
"Leave journeyman-he manage your concern."

Off goes balloon-all cares are out of fight:
Down in a marsh drops GILES in hapless plight,
And finds himself a happy man e'er night.

If France in novelties muft ftill have fway,
What dainty dame at home will bear to stay?

Sir JOHN, a fimple knight, nor more nor less,
Dubb'd for his township's, not his own address,
Thinks all but Paris now is low and filly;

So wife, fon, felf-are cram'd into the dilly.-
Chuckfull they go-the door, you scarce can lock it;
Shawls, drams, pies, pattens-ftuff'd into each pocket.
Sick of rough roads, they're trundl'd down to Dover;
More fick of rougher feas, they're wafted over.

On fhore, my lady cries, "Now, dear, d'ye fee, "Don't you parley-but leave the French to me; "Here, Mounfur Waiter! porter me some beer. "Plait il, madame? I fay-Ontong-d'ye hear ? "Porter de dinné. Is Paris far? Bien loin. "That's right, my lady- Porter and firloin,"

Teeray Sir JOHN. Zounds, mother change that ftrain,
Speak in the vulgar tongue, and you'll fpeak plain.
"Fi done! with English we shall not advance :
"Plain English truths are not the taste in France.
"No, faith-thofe fquibs that we fo witty call,
"Egad the French esteem no jokes at all;
"Nor can one get, fo much they hate what's funny,
"An English newspaper-for love or money.'

At home again-one word before we part;
Our Author claims it from each feeling heart:
But chief from you, ye fair, whose cherish'd name
Love crowns with honour, or configns to fhame;
You will our Poet greet with warm applause,
Who pleads fo firmly in your beauty's caufe;
And to vain man the contraft ftrives to prove,
'Twixt lawless paffion and connubial love.

Strahan and Preston,
Printers-Street.

THE END.

WERTER;

A TRAGEDY.