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EPILOGUE: Spoken by Monsieur.
BEgar, de Play be done, and now me guess,
Journee, me Conjure vat be de success.
You tink de Play be dull, me tink so too:
And, Gallant, am not I a Witch, Morbleau?
Play take, and Autor be so grand a fool
To turn de French Nation to ridicule?
Dere's no such ting in nature: No begar,
De French-man be de Wit in Anglitar.
Dough he be fool in France, dat be no matter;
Shange but de Scene, and come but cross de water
In English Air, he strait turn man of part,
Get de Lords money, and de Ladies heart.
And shall
De English Fop abuse him on de Stage?
Journee, all my French blood be in a rage.
Damn d'English Acteur, English Teatre,
Dere's no such ting as Wit nor Acting dere.
De Wit, de Sense, de Fame, and de Renown,
Be in de French Troop at toder end o'Town.
Dere Player be brisk aery Spark, here Dog
Of Actor, more like heavie English Log.
Beside, de English fool breed Beauties here,
And when gay Miss does on de Stage appear,
Strait keeping Spark, undo de Teatre.
Dere's no such danger 'mong de wiser French,
Dere matron Actress with grave face, fat paunch,
And greasie look, more fit for Bawd den Wench.
Here dull Comedian spend Ten tousand pound,
Build house, and act togeder seav'n year round.
Begar, dat be no good French fashion; Dey,
Like true Knight Erran, scorn so long a stay;
Act but a veek or fortnight, and away.
No House, no Beauty, no Estate t'engage;
Journee, dere be no Ruining deir Stage.
FINIS.