Sidor som bilder

Lud! what a group the motley scene discloses ! False wit, false wives, false virgins, and false

spouses! Statesmen with bridles on; and, close beside them, Patriots in party-colour'd suits that ride them. There Hebes, turn’d of fifty, try once more To raise a flame in Cupids of threescore. These in their turn, with appetites as keen, Deserting fifty, fasten on fifteen. Miss, not yet full fifteen, with fire uncommon, Flings down her sampler, and takes up the woman; The little urchin smiles, and spreads her lure, And tries to kill, ere she's got power to cure. Thus 'tis with all-their chief and constant care Is to seem every thing but what they are. Yon broad, bold, angry spark, I fix my eye on, Who seems to’have robb’d his vizor from the lion; Who frowns and talks and swears with round

parade, Looking, as who should say, damme! who's afraid ?

[Mimicking. Strip but this vizor off, and sure I am You'll find his lionship a very lamb. Yon politician, famous in debate, Perhaps, to vulgar eyes, bestrides the state! Yet, when he deigns his real shape to' assume, He turns old woman, and bestrides a broom. Yon patriot too, who presses on your sight, And seems to every gazer all in white, If with a bribe his candour you attack, He bows, turns round, and whip—the man's inYon critic, too-but whither do I run ? [black ! If I proceed, our bard will be undone! Well, then, a truce, since she requests it too: Do you spare her, and I'll for once spare you.




Enter Mrs. Bulkley, who courtesies very low as

beginning to speak. Then enter Miss Catley, who stands full before her, and courtesies to the Audience.

Mrs. BULKLEY. HOLD, ma'am, your pardon. What's

What's your business here? Miss. CATL. The Epilogue. Mrs. Bulk. The Epilogue ? Miss. Catl. Yes, the Epilogue, my dear. Mrs. Bulk. Sure you mistake, ma'am. The

Epilogue? I bring it. Miss CATL. Excuse me, ma'am. The author bid me sing it.

RECITATIVE. Ye beaux and belles, that form this splendid ring, Suspend your conversation while I sing. MRs. Bulk. Why sure the girl's beside her

self: an Epilogue of singing,
A hopeful end indeed to such a bless'd beginning.
Besides, a singer in a comic set!
Excuse me, ma'am; I know the etiquette.

Miss CATL. What if we leave it to the House?
Mrs. Bulk. The House!-Agreed.
Miss CATL. Agreed.
Mrs. Bulk. And she, whose party's largest,

shall proceed.

And first I hope, you'll readily agree
I've all the critics and the wits for me.
They, I am sure, will answer my commands;
Ye candid judging few, hold up your hands :
What, no return? I find too late, I fear,
That modern judges seldom enter here.
Miss Carl. I'm for a different set-Old men

whose trade is
Still to gallant and dangle with the ladies.

RECITATIVE. Whomump their passion, and who, grimly smiling, Still thus address the fair, with voice beguiling.


Turn, my fairest, turn, if ever
Strephon caught thy ravish'd eye:
Pity take on your swain so clever,
Who without your

aid must die.
Yes, I shall die, hu, hu, hu, hu.
Yes, I must die, ho, ho, ho, ho.

[Da capo. MRS. Bulk. Let all the old pay homage to your

merit: Give me the

gay, the men of spirit. Ye travel'd tribe, ye macaroni train, Of French friseurs and nosegays justly vain, Who take a trip to Paris once a year To dress, and look like awkward Frenchmen here, Lend me


hands.-0, fatal news to tell, Their hands are only lent to the Heinelle. Miss CATL. Ay, take your travellers, travellers indeed!

[Tweed. Give me my bonny Scot, that travels from the


young, the

Where are the cheels! Ah, ah, I well discern The smiling looks of each bewitching bairn:

A bonny young lad is my Jockey.


I'll sing to amuse you by night and by day, And be unco merry when you are but gay; When you with your bagpipes are ready to play, My voice shall be ready to carol away

With Sandy, and Sawney, and Jockey,

With Sawney, and Jarvie, and Jockey. MRS. BULK. Ye gamesters, who, so eager in

pursuit, Make but of all your fortune one va toute: Ye jockey tribe, whose stock of words are few, • I hold the odds-Done, done, with you,with you:' Ye barristers so fluent with grimace, • My lord-your lordship misconceives the case: Doctors,who cough and answer every misfortuner,

I wish I'd been call'd in a little sooner:' Assist my cause with hands and voices hearty, Come end the contest here, and aid my party.

Miss CATL. Ye brave Irish lads, hark away

to the crack, Assist I


in this woful attack; For sure I don't wrong you, you seldom are slack, When the ladies are calling, to blush, and hang

For you're always polite and attentive,
Still to amuse us inventive,
And death is your only preventive:

Your hands and your voices for me,


MRS. BULK. Well, madam, what if, after all

this sparring, We both agree, like friends, to end our jarring! Miss CATL. And that our friendship may re

main unbroken,
What if we leave the Epilogue unspoken?

MRS. BULK. Agreed.
Miss CATL. Agreed.

MRS. BULK. And now, with late repentance,
Unepilogued the Poet waits his sentence:
Condemn the stubborn fool who can't submit
To thrive by flattery, though he starves by wit.



There is a place, so Ariosto sings,
A treasury for lost and missing things:
Lost human wits have places there assign'd them,
And they, who lose their senses, there may find

But where's this place, this storehouse of the age?
The Moon, says he:—but I affirm, the Stage:
At least in many things, I think, I see
His lunar and our mimic world agree.
Both shine at night, for but at Foote's alone,
We scarce exhibit till the sun goes down.
Both prone to change, no settled limits fix,
And sure the folks of both are lunatics,
But in this parallel my best pretence is,
That mortals visit both to find their senses.
To this strange spot, rakes, macaronies, cits,
Come thronging to collect their scatter'd wits.

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