Spoken by Mrs. Bulkley, in the character of Miss Hardcastle.
Well! having STOOPED TO CONQUER with success,
And gain’d a husband without aid from dress,—
Still, as a barmaid, I could wish it too,
As I have conquer’d him, to conquer you:
And let me say, for all your resolution,
That pretty barmaids have done execution.
Our life is all a play, compos’d to please;
“We have our exits and our entrances.”
The first Act shows the simple country maid,
Harmless and young, of everything afraid;
Blushes when hir’d, and with unmeaning action:
“I hopes as how to give you satisfaction.”
Her second Act displays a livelier scene,—
The unblushing barmaid of a country inn,
Who whisks about the house, at market caters,
Talks loud, coquets the guests, and scolds the waiters.
Next, the scene shifts to town, and there she soars,
The chop-house toast of ogling connoisseurs.
On ’squires and cits she there displays her arts,
And on the gridiron broils her lovers’ hearts—
And as she smiles, her triumphs to complete,
Even common-councilmen forget to eat.
The fourth Act shows her wedded to the ’squire,
And Madam now begins to hold it higher;
Pretends to taste, at operas cries caro,
And quits her Nancy Dawson for Che faro;
Dotes upon dancing, and in all her pride,
Swims round the room, the Heinel of Cheapside
Ogles and leers with artificial skill,
Till, having lost in age the power to kill,
She sits all night at cards, and ogles at spadille.
Such, through our lives the eventful history—
The fifth and last Act still remains for me:
The barmaid now for your protection prays,
Turns female barrister, and pleads for Bayes.[56]
FOOTNOTES:
[56] The name of “Bayes,” which Buckingham (1671) bestowed upon Dryden, became a synonyme for a dramatic critic.
EPILOGUE
TO “THE GOOD-NATURED MAN.”[57]
As puffing quacks some caitiff wretch procure,
To swear the pill, or drop, has wrought a cure—
Thus, on the stage, our play-wrights still depend,
For epilogues and prologues, on some friend,
Who knows each art of coaxing up the town,
And make full many a bitter pill go down:
Conscious of this, our bard has gone about,
And teas’d each rhyming friend to help him out.
“An Epilogue—things can’t go on without it;
It could not fail, would you but set about it.”
“Young man,” cries one—a bard laid up in clover—
“Alas! young man, my writing days are over;
Let boys play tricks, and kick the straw; not I:
Your brother Doctor there, perhaps may try.”
“What, I? dear Sir,” the Doctor interposes;
“What, plant my thistle, Sir, among his roses!
No, no, I’ve other contests to maintain;
To-night I head our troops at Warwick Lane.[58]
Go, ask your Manager.” “Who? me? Your pardon;
These things are not our forte at Covent Garden.”[59]
Our Author’s friends, thus plac’d at happy distance,
Give him good words, indeed, but no assistance.
As some unhappy wight, at some new play,
At the pit door stands elbowing away;
While oft, with many a smile, and many a shrug,
He eyes the centre, where his friends sit snug;
His simpering friends, with pleasure in their eyes,
Sink as he sinks, and as he rises rise;
He nods, they nod; he cringes, they grimace;
But not a soul will budge to give him place.
Since, then, unhelp’d, our bard must now conform
“To ’bide the pelting of this pitiless storm,”
Blame where you must, be candid where you can,
And be each critic the Good-natured Man.