EPILOGUE, BY Mr. BYROM.
Enter Hurlothrumbo.
Ladies and Gentlemen, my Lord of Flame Has sent me here to thank you in his Name; Proud of your Smiles, he’s mounted many a Story Above the tip-top Pinnacle of Glory: Thence he defies the Sons of Clay, the Criticks; Fellows, says he, that are meer Paralyticks, With Judgments lame, and Intellects that halt, Because a Man outruns them——they find fault. He is indeed, to speak my poor Opinion, Out of the reach of critical Dominion.
[Enter Critick.]
Adso! her’s one of ’em.——Cr. A strange odd Play, Sir;
[Enter Author, pushes Hurlothrumbo aside.
Au. Let me come to him——Pray, what’s that you say, Sir?
Cr. I say, Sir, Rules are not observ’d here.——Au. Rules, Like Clocks and Watches, were all made for Fools. Rules make a Play? that is——Cr. What, Mr. Singer?
Au. As if a Knife and Fork should make a Finger.
Cr. Pray Sir, which is the Hero of your Play?
Au. Hero! why they’re all Heroes in their way.
Cr. Why here’s no Plot! or none that’s understood.
Au. There’s a Rebellion tho’; and that’s as good.
Cr. No Spirit nor Genius in’t. Au. Why didn’t here A SPIRIT and a GENIUS both appear?
Cr. Poh, ’tis all Stuff and Nonsense——Au. Lack-a-day! Why that’s the very Essence of a Play, Your Old-House, New-House, Opera and Ball; ’Tis NONSENSE, Critick, that supports ’em all. As you yourselves ingeniously have shown, Whilst on their Nonsense you have built your own.
Cr. Here wants——Wants what! Why now for all your canting, What one Ingredient of a Play is wanting? Musick, Love, War, Death, Madness without Sham, Done to the Life, by Persons of the Dram: Scenes and Machines, descending and arising; Thunder and Lightning; ev’ry thing surprizing!
Cr. Play, Farce, or Opera is’t? Au. No matter whether, ’Tis a Rehearsal of ’em all together. But come Sir, come, troop off, old Blundermonger, And interrupt the Epilogue no longer.
[Author drives the Critick off the Stage.
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Hurlo proceed—— Hurlo. Troth! he says true enough, The Stage has given rise to wretched Stuff: Critick, or Player; a Dennis, or a Cibber, Vie only which shall make it go down glibber; A thousand murd’rous ways they cast about To stifle it——but Murder-like——’twill out. Our Author fairly, without so much Fuss Shews it—in puris Naturalibus; |
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Pursues the Point beyond its highest Height, Then bids his Men of Fire, and Ladies bright, Mark, how it looks!——When it is out of Sight. |
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So true a Stage, so fair a Play for Laughter, There never was before, nor ever will come after: Never, no never; not while vital Breath, Defends ye from that long-liv’d Mortal Death. Death!——something hangs on my prophetick Tongue, I’ll give it utterance——be it right or wrong: Handel himself shall yield to Hurlothrumbo, And Bononcini too shall cry——Succumbo. That’s if the Ladies condescend to smile: Their Looks make Sense, or Nonsense, in our Isle. |
- Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected.
- Typographical errors were silently corrected.
- Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only when a predominant form was found in this book.