EPILOGUE.

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Arid each would call on me, by night and day,To come and take the other one away !

Don't chuckle, Sir! the time is well nigh comeWhen you'll be summon'd, without beat of drum.You wish to live, it seems, to play the Rake,And every dastardly advantage takeOf unsuspecting innocence and youth,In spite of honour, manliness, and truth.I saw you throw your lure for yonder beauty,And try to wean her from the path of duty;And yet, a wife more spotless none can claim,Nor one more kind, than she who bears thy name.Wretch that thou art! in crime and folly grey !What! wouldst thou, reckless, rush upon thy prey,And from her aged mother take her stay ?Rob her of all on earth that's worth possessing,And make a curse where Nature meant a blessing?Will no compunction check thy fierce desire 1 —None, monster! none?—then /must quench thy fire.Know then, that while each sense is wrapt in gloom,Disease shall bring thee to a cheerless tomb ;For thee to Heaven no prayers shall ascend,And thou, despis'd, shalt die—without a friend !

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