Sir Luke. No-no-no-no—not all—but the worst of them are good enough to admire him.
Twi. Pray Mr. Haswell, will you suffer all these encomiums?
Elv. He must suffer them—there are virtues, which praise cannot taint—such are Mr. Haswell's—for they are the offspring of a mind, superior even to the love of fame—neither can they, through malice, suffer by applause, since they are too sacred to incite envy, and must conciliate the respect, the love, and the admiration of all.
FINIS.
EPILOGUE,
Written by MILES-PETER ANDREWS, Esq.
Spoken by Mrs. MATTOCKS.
| Since all are sprung, they say, from Mother Earth, |
| Why stamp a merit or disgrace on birth? |
| Yet so it is, however we disguise it, |
| All boast their origin, or else despise it. |
| This pride or shame haunts ev'ry living soul |
| From Hyde-park Corner, down to Limehouse Hole: |
| Peers, taylors, poets, statesmen, undertakers, |
| Knights, squires, man-milliners, and peruke-makers. |
| Sir Hugh Glengluthglin, from the land of goats, |
| Tho' out at elbows, shews you all his coats; |
| And rightful heir to twenty pounds per annum, |
| Boasts the rich blood that warm'd his great great grannam; |
| While wealthy Simon Soapsuds; just be knighted, |
| Struck with the sword of state, is grown dim sighted, |
| Forgets the neighbouring chins he used to lather, |
| And scarcely knows he ever had a father. |
| Our Author, then, correct in every line, |
| From nature's characters hath pictur'd mine; |
| For many a lofty fair, who, friz'd and curl'd, |
| With crest of horse hair, tow'ring thro' the world, |
| To powder, paste, and pins, ungrateful grown, |
| Thinks the full periwig is all her own; |
| Proud of her conquering ringlets, onward goes, |
| Nor thanks the barber, from whose hands she rose. |
| Thus doth false pride fantastic minds mislead, |
| And make our weaker sex seem weak indeed: |
| Suppose, to prove this truth, in mirthful strain, |
| We bring the Dripping family again.— |
| Papa, a tallow chandler by descent, |
| Had read "how larning is most excellent:" |
| So Miss, returned from boarding school at Bow, |
| Waits to be finished by Mama and Co.— |
| "See, spouse, how spruce our Nan is grown, and tall; |
| I'll lay, she cuts a dash at Lord Mayor's ball."— |
| In bolts the maid—"Ma'am! Miss's master's come";— |
| Away fly Ma' and Miss to dancing room— |
| "Walk in, Mounseer; come, Nan, draw up like me."— |
| "Ma foi! Madame, Miss like you as two pea."— |
| Mounseer takes out his kit; the scene begins; |
| Miss trusses up; my lady Mother grins;— |
| "Ma'amselle, me teach a you de step to tread; |
| First turn you toe, den turn you littel head; |
| One, two, dree, sinka, risa, balance; bon, |
| Now entrechat, and now de cotillon." |
| [Singing and dancing about. |
| "Pardieu, Ma'amselle be one enchanting girl; |
| Me no surprise to see her ved an Earl."— |
| "With all my heart," says Miss; "Mounseer, I'm ready; |
| I dream'd last night, Ma, I should be a Lady." |
| Thus do the Drippings, all important grown, |
| Expect to shine with lustre not their own; |
| New airs are got; fresh graces, and fresh washes, |
| New caps, new gauze, new feathers, and new sashes; |
| Till just complete for conquest at Guildhall, |
| Down comes an order to suspend the ball. |
| Miss Shrieks, Ma' scolds, Pa' seems to have lost his tether; |
| Caps, custards, coronets—all sink together— |
| Papa resumes his jacket, dips away, |
| And Miss lives single, till next Lord Mayor's day. |
| If such the sorrow, and if such the strife, |
| That break the comforts of domestic life, |
| Look to the hero, who this night appears, |
| Whose boundless excellence the World reveres; |
| Who, friend to nature, by no blood confin'd, |
| Is the glad relative of all mankind. |