EPILOGUE. David Garrick Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
Broad Street Oxford OX1 3BG UK
Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T116245 1136 K093079.003 Pearch, G. A collection of poems in four volumes. By several hands. Vol. III. [The second edition]. London printed for G. Pearch 1770 pp. 286-288. 4v. ; 8⁰.

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EPILOGUE . BY D. GARRICK , ESQ . WHATE'ER you think , good sirs , in this agree , That we , at least , have given — variety ! That we have posted on , in prose and verse , Thro' Tragedy , — and Comedy , — and Farce . Have you not had in me a strange farrago , Of Rhadamistus , Sturgeon , and Iago ? Nay , we have run from English to the French , And the great boy became a simple wench ! Nature a simple wench much better teaches To act our characters , and wear the breeches . But , why this motley mixture ? — 'Tis the fashion ; The times are medley , — medley all the nation . One day reigns Tragedy , — all gloom and sorrow ; Then , shift the scenes — and enter Farce to-morrow . Now rise six thousand discontented sailors ! Then comes the Farce , — up get as many taylors ! These kings of shreds and patches touch'd in brain , Strut for a day , and then — cross-legg'd again . Our Goddess , Liberty , from whom we own Each blessing springs — for GEORGE is on the throne , Now , Magna Charta and a William gives , Then scours the streets , and with the rabble lives ; Will drink , huzza , and rouse you from your beds , Break all your windows , and perhaps your heads : Here taste , opinions , passions never fix , But rise and fall like stocks — and politicks . That we should ask you to our medley treat , And GET you too — was , saith ! no boyish feat . Are we not hopeful youths ? — Deal fair , and tell us — And likely to turn out good sprightly fellows ? I mean to have that kind of useful spirit , Which modestly assures us we have merit . We little folks , like great ones , are but show , Bold face oft hides what the faint heart doth know . Think ye , we were not in a grievous fright , To have our noble Patron in our sight , Who knows — is known so well to speak and write ! We pray'd , before our awful judge appearing , That our weak pipes were not within his hearing ; One sense of his , less keen than all the rest , Somewhat becalm'd the flutter of my breast ; It gave some courage to our troubled thoughts , That seeing only mark'd but half our faults . " 'Tis an ill wind , they say , that blows no good , " And well the proverb now is understood ; For what has long been mourn'd by all the nation , Is at this time our only consolation .