EPITAPH O N D R. P ARNE L. THIS HIS tomb infcribed to gentle PARNEL's name, May speak our gratitude, but not his fame. What heart but feels his fweetly-moral lay, That leads to truth through pleasure's flowery way? And heaven, that lent him genius, was repaid. The transitory breath of fame below: More lafting rapture from his works fhall rife, EPILOGUE TO THE COMEDY OF THE SISTER S. WHAT? five long acts-and all to make us wifer! Our authorefs fure has wanted an adviser. But how? ay, there's the rub! [paufing]-I've got my cue: The world's a masquerade! the mafquers, you, you, [To Boxes, Pit, and Gallery. . you. Lud! what a group the motley scene discloses! False wits, false wives, false virgins, and false spouses! Statesmen with bridles on; and, close befide 'em, Patriots in party-colcur'd fuits that ride 'em. There There Hebes, turn'd of fifty, try once more Mifs, not yet full fifteen, with fire uncommon, Flings down her fampler, and takes up the woman : Strip but this vizor off, and fure I am Perhaps, to vulgar eyes, beftrides the state; If I proceed, our bard will be undone ! Well then a truce, fince fhe requests it too : THE |