EPILOGUE, INTENDED FOR MRS. BULKLEY. THERE is a place, so Ariosto sings, A treasury for lost and missing things: Lost human wits have places there assign'd them, And they, who lose their senses, there may find them. But where's this place, this storehouse of the age? The Moon, says he :-but I affirm, the Stage: At least in many things, I think, I see His lunar and our mimic world agree. Both shine at night, for but at Foote's alone, We scarce exhibit till the sun goes down, But in this parallel my best pretence is, Has he not seen how you your favour place On sentimental queens and lords in lace? How can the piece expect or hope for quarter? The English laws forbid to punish lunatics. FINIS. C. Whittingham, Printer, Chiswick. |