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EPILOGUE

To the COMEDY called A FRIEND in NEED is a FRIEND
INDEED!

Spoken by Mrs. BULKLEY.
July, 1783.

WOMAN, of all who feel the Hour of Need,

Wants most, most rarely finds, a Friend Indeed;

Doom'd in each fex, alas! by turns to prove
Falfe, hollow Friendship, and infidious Love.
Hogarth, on whom, fweet Humour's darling child
At once Minerva and Thalia fmil'd;
Whose pencil'd fatire Vice and Folly fmote,
Who many a Comedy on canvas wrote;
With coat tuck'd up, ftraw hat, and linen gown,
Draws honeft Marg'ry just arriv'd in town:
With ruddy health and innocence fhe glows,
Fresh as the morn, and blooming like the rofe:
In the inn. yard, a Hag, who ready stands,
Lays on the harmless maid, her harpy hands;

Too well the Beldam knows the treach'rous art,
To tempt, and to corrupt the female heart;
Too foon to ruin fhe decoys her prey,

"Then cafts her, like a loathfome weed, away."

"Pooh! pooh! (cries Citpup) this is all a lie! "Poets and Painters will make free-Oh fie! "Poor fouls! they love to bounce, and think they

railly;

"Nothing but Truth and Honour in 'Change

Alley!

"Plump Marg'ry at a monstrous Premium went"Prodigious intereft-almoft Cent per Cent.

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"I found her poor, not bleft with Half a Crown; Stampther my own, and brought her upon Town"Made her as fine as hands, or gold, could make her

"Built her a Coach-a grand one !-in Long-Acre! "Marg'ry's good fortunes all on me depend; "I ruin'd her-and am her only Friend."

Happy the high-born fair, whose ample dower, Pours in her wealthy lap a Golden Shower! While many a friend, fincere no doubt, furrounds Her thousand charms-and hundred thoufand pounds: But fhe, who pines in want, whofe early bloom Deceit would canker, or Diftrefs confume,

Let

Let jealous fears her ev'ry step attend,

And mark the Flatterer, from the real Friend!
He, who with gold would bribe her into vice,
Buys but her Honour at a dearer price:
Not generous, but prodigal and vain;
A Bofom Traitor! cruel, not humane!

But He, whofe virtuous hand her wants supplies,
And wipes the tears of Anguifh from her eyes;
Who rears, o'ercharg'd with grief, her drooping head,
And fummons Hymen to the genial bed;

Let Love and Gratitude his merits plead,
And lodge him in her heart, a Friend indeed!

PROLOGUE

PROLOGUE,

TO THE

YOUNG

YOUNG QUAKER,

A COMEDY written by Mr. O'KEEFFE,
Spoken by Mr. PALME R.
Auguft, 1783.

OLD Crab, a Critick, looking o'er our Bill,

Thus vents his angry Spleen, and rails his fill. "A Comedy!-The man's too bold by halfI can't bear Comedies that make me laugh. I doubt, my friend, he'll make both me and you fickFarce is his province, and a Farce with Mufick. Hay-market!-Zounds the Fellow makes me fretWhere's Mrs. Bannifter, Mifs George, and Brett? Edwin's fongs, fal, lal, tag, rag, all Concetto! Charles Bannister's bold Bafs, and droll Falsetto? Five Acts!-a bore!-and are his Scenes fo long, There's no room edgeways to fqueeze in a fong? Make it two Farces! Cut it in the middle! Nor play a Solo thus without a Fiddle.”

Our Bard 'tis true firft woo'd the Publick here, And here their fmiles have oft difpell'd his fear: Of sportive Farce he seem'd the fav'rite Child, And with a fong your eafy ears beguil'd.

To-night,

To-night, not dreaming of a grand effay,
By fome strange Meteor fancies led astray,
He meant an Opera, and produc'd a Play.

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You then [to the Orchestra] whofe breath and refin'd bows in league

Have pip'd, and scrap'd whole hours without fatigue, Take breath, to-night! Cease wind, and cat-gut

fleep!

Your lungs, your nimble elbows, quiet keep!
Your old friend comes for once in Masquerade-
Yet, fear him not! for, conftant to his Trade,
Again he'll join your Band, again he'll court your
aid.

And you [to the audience] who fit in many an aweful Row

Enthron'd above [galleries] or on the Bench below;

[Boxes.

Good men and true of our Dramatick Pannel, [Pit.
Let not your mercy leave its ancient channel!
If by some chance or impulfe-Heav'n knows whence-
Our Bard quits Sound, and wanders into Sense;
If Wit and Humour on the furface flow,
While folid Senfe and Moral lurk below,

Let him be pardon'd! nor your verdict dread,
Tho' Farce, fometimes pops in her waggish head!
By Mildness you fhall teach him to fucceed,

And write hereafter-Comedies indeed!

EPILOGUE

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