Yon politician, famous in debate,

Perhaps to vulgar eyes, bestrides the state;
Yet, when he deigns his real shape t' 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 in black! Yon critic, too-but whither do I run?

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.

EPILOGUE,

SPOKEN BY MRS. BULKLEY AND MISS CATLEY.

Enter Mrs. Bulkley, who courtsies very low as beginning to speak. Then enter Miss Catley, who stands full before her, and courtsies to the Audience.

Mrs. Bulkley.

HOLD, Ma'am, your pardon. What's your business

here?

Miss Catley.

The Epilogue.

Mrs. Bulkley.

The Epilogue?

Miss Catley.

Yes, the Epilogue, my dear

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.

[singing! Why sure the girl's beside herself: an epilogue of A hopeful end indeed to such a blessed beginning. Besides, a singer in a comic set!

Excuse me,

Ma'am, I know the etiquette.
Miss Catley.

What if we leave it to the House?

Mrs. Bulkley.

The House?-Agreed.

Miss Catley.

Agreed.

Mrs. Bulkley.

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 Catley.

I'm for a different 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-Cotillion.

Turn my fairest, turn, if ever
Strephon caught thy ravished eye,
Take pity 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. Bulkley.

Let all the old pay homage to your merit:
Give me the young, the gay, the men of spirit.
Ye travelled 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 your hands.--O fatal news to tell,
Their hands are only lent to the Heinelle.
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 will discern
The smiling looks of each bewitching bairne.
A bonny young lad is my Jockey.

Air.

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. Bulkley.

Ye Gamesters, who so eager in pursuit,

Make but of all your fortune one va Toate :
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 called 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,

Assist me, I pray, in this woful attack;

For sure I don't wrong you, you seldom are slack, When the ladies are calling, to blush and hang 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.
What if we leave the Epilogue unspoken.

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 flattery, though he starves by wit.

[Exeunt.

AN 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 assigned them,
And they, who lose their senses, there may find them.
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 scattered wits.
The gay coquette, who ogles all the day,
Comes here at night, and goes a prude away: