EPILOGUE,

SPOKEN BY MRS. BULKLEY AND MISS CATLEY.

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

HOL

Mrs. Bulkley.

OLD Ma'am, your pardon. What's your business here?

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 singA hopeful end indeed to such a blest beginning. [ing, 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 Calley.

Agreed.

Mrs. Bulkley.

And she, who's 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-Cotillon.

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 ev'ry misfortuner,
"I wish I'd been called in a little sooner,"

G 2

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, bark 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?

Agreed.

Agreed.

Mrs. Bulkley.

Miss Catley.

Mrs. Bulkley.

And now with late repentance,

Un-epilogued the Poet wits 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.

TE

HERE 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;
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.