Song the Last; or, Epilogue

THE Wits were wont, in ancient times,
To estimate their Age by Rhimes,
A Ballad was their Schooling;
We Moderns may, perhaps be wrong,
If not likewise, also a Song
May fit us for our Fooling.

Imprimis, there's the Men of State,
But, hold! I'll let alone the Great,
Lest I shou'd gain a Schooling,
For Greatness was not form'd for sport,
Tho' some folks greatly make their Court,
By greatly, greatly Fooling.

We play the Fool, we act the Wise,
We bare-fac'd walk, or wear disguise,
As Hopes and Fears are ruling;
And yet, with all our deep-laid wiles,
From John o' Nokes to Tom o' Stiles,
What is it all but Fooling?

If Men will think, if Men will see,
That all this To, — or not to be,
Is as we're hot, or cooling;
To-day on Expectation's wing,
To-morrow off, 'tis not the Thing,
What is the Thing?—why Fooling.

Fool on, Fool on, for Life at best,
Is but half-bred, 'twixt Cry and Jest,
As Chance, not Reason's ruling;
To Chance we owe our Rights and Wrongs,
To CHANCE I dedicate these Songs,
A Ballad-Maker's Fooling.