EPILOGUE Intended to be spoken by Mrs Bulkley and Miss Catley. Enters Mrs BULKLEY, who curtsies very low as beginning to speak. Then enters Miss CATLEY, who stands full before her, and curtsies 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, MRS BULKLEY. Why, sure the girl's beside herself! an Epilogue of singing, 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. And she whose party's largest shall proceed. MISS CATLEY. I'm for a different set:-Old men, whose trade is Recitative. Who mump their passion, and who, grimly smiling, Air-Cotillon. Turn, my fairest, turn, if ever Strephon caught thy ravish'd eye. Yes, I shall die, hu, hu, hu, ha MRS BULKLEY. Let all the old pay homage to your merit; 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 hand: 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 chiels!-Ah! ah, I well discern The smiling looks of each bewitching bairn. Air.-A bonny young Lad is my Jocky. I sing to amuse you by night and by day, With Sandy, and Sawney, and Jockey, MRS BULKLEY. 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 called in a little sooner:" Assist my cause with hands and voices hearty, Come, end the contest here, and aid my party. MISS CATLEY. Air.-Ballinamony. Ye brave Irish lads, hark away to the crack, For sure I don't wrong you-you seldom are slack, 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, MISS CATLEY. And that our friendship may remain unbroken, MRS BULKLEY. Agreed. MISS CATLEY. Agreed. MRS BULKLEY. And now with late repentance, Un-epilogue the Poet waits his sentence. Condemn the stubborn fool who can't submit To thrive by flattery, though he starves by wit. [Exeunt. EPILOGUE TO THE COMEDY OF "THE SISTERS." WHAT? five long acts-and all to make us wiser! What if I give a masquerade?—I will. But how? ay, there's the rub! [pausing] I've got my cue: Lud! what a group the motley scene discloses! Patriots in party-colour'd suits that ride 'em : To raise a flame in Cupids of threescore; 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, 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; [Mimicking. Yon patriot, too, who presses on your sight, He bows, turns round, and whip-the man's in black! If I proceed, our bard will be undone ! Well, then, a truce, since she requests it too: 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 assign'd them, And they who lose their senses, there may find them. But where's this place, the storehouse of the age? The Moon, says he ;-but I affirm, the StageAt 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. The gay coquette, who ogles all the day, Comes here at night, and goes a prude away. Hither the affected city dame advancing, Who sighs for operas, and doats on dancing, Taught by our art, her ridicule to pause on, Quits the ballet, and calls for Nancy Dawson. The gamester, too, whose wit's all high or low, Oft risks his fortune on one desperate throw, Comes here to saunter, having made his bets, Finds his lost senses out, and pays his debts. The Mohawk, too, with angry phrases storedAs", Sir!" and "Sir, I wear a sword!" Here lesson'd for awhile, and hence retreating, Goes out, affronts his man, and takes a beating. |