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 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.

AIR BALLINAMONY.

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?

Agreed.

MRS. BULKLEY.

MISS CATLEY.

Agreed.

MRS. BULKLEY.

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.

[Exeunt.

ANOTHER INTENDED EPILOGUE TO "SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER."

TO BE SPOKEN BY 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, 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 dotes 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,

Come here to saunter, having made his bets,
Finds his lost senses out, and pays his debts.
The Mohawk, too, with angry phrases stor'd,
As 'Dam'me, sir,' and 'Sir, I wear a sword,'
Here lesson'd for a while, and hence retreating,
Goes out, affronts his man, and takes a beating.
Here come the sons of scandal and of news,
But find no sense for they had none to lose.
Of all the tribe here wanting an adviser,
Our author's the least likely to grow wiser;
Has he not seen how you your favour place
On sentimental queens and lords in lace?
Without a star, a coronet, or garter,

How can the piece expect or hope for quarter?
No high-life scenes, no sentiment: the creature
Still stoops among the low to copy nature.

Yes, he's far gone: and yet some pity fix;
The English laws forbid to punish lunatics.1

1 Presented in MS., among other papers, to Dr. Percy, by the Poet, and first printed in Miscellaneous Works, 1801.-P. C.

POEMS

EXTRACTED FROM THE PROSE WORKS OF GOLDSMITH,

(See Citizen of the World, L. 85.) It is the business of the stage-poet to watch the appearance of every new player at his own house, and so come out next day with a flaunting copy of newspaper verses. In these, nature and the actor may be set to run races, the player always coming off victorious; or nature may mistake him for herself; or old Shakespeare may put on his winding-sheet, and pay him a visit; or the tuneful Nine may strike up their harps in his praise; or, should it happen to be an actress, Venus, the beauteous Queen of Love, and the naked Graces, are ever in waiting. The lady must be herself a goddess bred and born; she must but you shall have a specimen of one of these poems, which may convey a more precise idea:

ON SEEING MRS.

PERFORM IN THE

CHARACTER OF

FOR you, bright fair, the Nine address their lays,
And tune my feeble voice to sing thy praise.
The heartfelt power of every charm divine,
Who can withstand their all-commanding shine?
See how she moves along with every grace,
While soul-brought tears steal down each shining
face.