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 should 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 shewn 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 wifes, false virgins, and false spouses!
Statesmen with bridles on; and, close beside 'em,

Patriots in particoloured 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 everything—but what they are.
Yon broad, bold, angry spark, I fix my eye on,
Who seems to have robb'd his vizor from the lion;
Who frowns, and talks, and swears, with round parade,
Looking, as who should say, Damme! whose afraid?

[Mimicking.

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.
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.

Enter Mrs. Bulkley, who curtsies very low as beginning to speak. Then enter 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.

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-Cotillon.

Turn, my fairest, turn, if ever

Strephon caught thy ravished eye;
Pity take 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,