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,
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.

MISS CATLEY.

What if we leave it to the house?

MRS BULKLEY.

The house -Agreed.

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-Cotillon.

Turn, my fairest, turn, if ever

Strephon caught thy ravish'd eye.
Pity take on your swain so clever,
Who without your aid must die.

Yes, I shall die, hu, hu, hu, ha
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 travell'd 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 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,
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-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,
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 jerring?

MISS CATLEY.

And that our friendship may remain unbroken,
What if we leave the Epilogue unspoken?

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!
Our authoress sure has wanted an adviser.
Had she consulted me, she would have made
Her moral play a speaking masquerade ;
Warm'd up each bustling scene, and in her rage
Have emptied all the green-room on the stage.
My life on't, this had kept her play from sinking,
Have pleased our eyes, and saved the pain of thinking.
Well! since she thus has shown her want of skill,

What if I give a masquerade?—I will.

But how? ay, there's the rub! [pausing] I've got my cue:
The world's a masquerade! the masquers, you, you, you.
To Boxes, Pit, and Gallery.

Lud! what a group the motley scene discloses!
False wits, false wives, false virgins, and false spouses
Statesmen with bridles on; and, close beside 'em,

Patriots in party-colour'd suits that ride 'em :
There Hebes, turn'd of fifty, try once more

To raise a flame in Cupids of threescore;
These in their turn, with appetites as keen,
Deserting fifty, fasten on fifteen.

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,
And tries to kill, ere she's got power to cure.
Thus 'tis with all-their chief and constant care
Is to seem every thing-but what they are.
Yon broad, bold, angry spark, I fix my eye on,
Who seems t' have robb'd his vizor from the lion;
Who frowns and talks and swears, with round parade,
Looking, as who should say, who's afraid?

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;
Yet, when he deigns his real shape t' assume,
He turns old woman, and bestrides a broom.

[Mimicking.

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.

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.