MRS. BULKLEY. Sure you mistake, Ma'am. The Epilogue I bring it. MISS CATLEY. 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. BULKLEY. Why sure the Girl's beside herself: an Epilogue of singing, A hopeful end indeed to such a blest beginning. Besides, a singer in a comic set! Excuse me, Ma'am; I know the etiquette. And she, whose party's largest, shall proceed. And first I hope, you'll readily agree MISS CATLEY. I'm for a diff'rent set-Old men, whose trade is Still to gallant and dangle with the ladies. RECITATIVE. Who mump their passion, and who, grimly smiling, Still thus address the fair, with voice beguiling. AIR-COTILLON. Turn, my fairest, turn, if ever Who without your aid must die. Yes, I shall die, hu, hu, hu, hu, Yes, I must die, ho, ho, ho, ho. MRS. BULKLEY. Da capo. Let all the old pay homage to your merit: Give me the young, the gay, the men of spirit. Ye travell'd tribe, ye macaroni train, Of French friseurs, and nosegays, justly vain, To dress, and look like aukward Frenchmen here, MISS CATLEY. Ay, take your travellers, travellers indeed! Give me my bonny Scot, that travels from the Tweed. Where are the cheels? Ah, ah, I well discern AIR. I'll sing to amuse you by night and by day, With Sandy, and Sawney, and Jockey, With Sawney, and Jarvie, and Jockey. MRS. BULKLEY. Ye gamesters, who, so eager in pursuit, 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. AIR-BALEINAMONY. MISS CATLEY. Ye brave Irish lads, hark away to the crack, For sure I don't wrong you, you seldom are slack, back: 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. BULKLEY. Well, Madam, what if, after all this sparring, We both agree, like friends, to end our jarring? MISS CATLEY. And that our friendship may remain unbroken, MRS. BULKLEY. Agreed. MISS CATLEY. Agreed. MRS. BULKLEY. And now, with late repentance, Un-epilogued the Poet waits his sentence; Condemn the stubborn fool who can't submit To thrive by flatt'ry, though he starves by wit. [Exeunt, EPILOGUE, INTENDED FOR MRS. BULKLEY. 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 them, |