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Sir Oliver S. Well, then, the fewer the better;

may your love for each other never know abatement!

Sir Peter T. And may you live as happily together as Lady Teazle and I intend to do!

Charles S. Rowley, my old friend, I am sure you congratulate me; and I suspect that I owe you much.

Sir Oliver S. You do indeed, Charles.

Rowley. If my efforts to serve you had not succeeded, you would have been in my debt for the attempt; but deserve to be happy, and you overpay me.

Sir Peter T. Ay, honest Rowley always said you would reform.

Charles S. Why, as to reforming, Sir Peter, I'll make no promises, and that I take to be a proof that I intend to set about it; but here shall be my monitor - my gentle guide--ah! can I leave the virtuous path those eyes illumine?

liar CH

Though thou, dear maid, shouldst wave thy beauty's sway,
Thou still must rule, because I will obey:
An humble fugitive from Folly view,
No sanctuary near but Love and you ;

[To the audience.
You can, indeed, each anxious fear remove,
For even Scandal dies if you approve.

EPILOGUE,

BY MR. COLMAN.

Spoken by Lady TEAZLE.

I, who was late so volatile and gay,
Like a trade wind must now blow all one way,
Bend all my cares, my studies, and my vows,
To one dull rusty weathercock - my spouse !
So wills our virtuous bard—the motley Bayes
Of crying epilogues and laughing plays !
Old bachelors, who marry smart young wives,
Learn from our play to regulate your lives :
Each bring his dear to town, all faults upon her —
London will prove the very source of honour.
Plunged fairly in, like a cold bath it serves,
When principles relax, to brace the nerves :
Such is my case; and yet I must deplore
That the gay dream of dissipation's o'er.
And say, ye fair, was ever lively wife,
Born with a genius for the highest life,
Like me untimely blasted in her bloom,
Like me condemn'd to such a dismal doom ?

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Save money - when I just knew how to waste it!
Leave London — just as I began to taste it!

Must I then watch the early crowing cock,
The melancholy ticking of a clock;
In a lone rustic hall for ever pounded,
With dogs, cats, rats, and squalling brats sur-

rounded ?
With humble curate can I now retire,
(While good Sir Peter boozes with the squire),
And at backgammon mortify my soul,
That pants for loo, or futters at a vole ?
Seven's the main ! Dear sound that must ex-

pire,
Lost at hot cockles round a Christmas fire !
The transient hour of fashion too soon spent,
Farewell the tranquil mind, farewell content !
Farewell the plumed head, the cushion'd tête,
That takes the cushion from its

proper

seat!
The spirit-stirring drum ! card drums I mean,
Spaville - odd trick — pam - basto — king and

queen!
And you, ye knockers, that, with brazen throat,
The welcome visitors' approach denote;
Farewell all quality of high renown,
Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious town!
Farewell ! your revels I partake no more,
And Lady Teazle's occupation's o'er !
All this I told our bard; he smiled, and said 'twas

clear,
I ought to play deep tragedy next year.

Meanwhile he drew wise morals from his play,
And in these solemn periods stalk'd away:
Blest were the fair like you; her faults who stopt,
And closed her follies when the curtain dropt!
No more in vice or error to engage,
Or play the fool at large on life's great stage.

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