THE GIFT. TO IRIS, IN BOW-STREET, COVENT-GARDEN.
IMITATED FROM THE FRENCH.

SAY, cruel Iris, pretty rake,

Dear mercenary beauty,
What annual offering shall I make
Expressive of my duty?

My heart, a victim to thine eyes,
Should I at once deliver,
Say, would the angry fair one prize
The gift, who slights the giver?

A bill, a jewel, watch, or toy,
My rivals give—and let 'em ;
If gems, or gold, impart a joy,

I'll give them-when I get 'em.
I'll give-but not the full-blown rose,
Or rose-bud more in fashion;
Such short lived offerings but disclose
A transitory passion.

I'll give thee something yet unpaid,
Not less sincere than civil :
I'll give thee-ah! too charming maid,
I'll give thee-to the devil.

EPITAPH. ON THOMAS PARNELL.

THIS tomb, inscribed to gentle Parnell's name,
May speak our gratitude, but not his fame.
What heart but feels his sweetly moral lay,

That leads to truth through pleasure's flowery way?
Celestial themes confessed his tuneful aid;
And Heaven, that lent him genius, was repaid.
Needless to him the tribute we bestow,

The transitory breath of fame below :

More lasting rapture from his works shall rise,
While converts thank their poet in the skies.

EPILOGUE TO "THE SISTER."

SPOKEN BY MRS. BULKLEY.

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;
Warmed 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! [fausing]-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 partly-coloured suits that ride 'em.
There Hebes, turned 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 t' have robbed his vizor from the lion,

Who frowns, and talks, and swears, with round parade,

Looking, as who should say, Dam'me! who's 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 a 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

INTENDED EPILOGUE TO "SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.”

Then ent

Enter MRS. BULKLEY, who curtsies very low as beginning to speak.
MISS CATLEY, who stands full before her, and curtsies to the Audience.

Mrs. BUL. Hold, Ma'am, your pardon. What's your business here?
Miss CAT. The Epilogue.

Mrs. BUL. The Epilogue?

Miss CAT. Yes, the Epilogue, my dear.

Mrs. BUL. Sure you mistake, Ma'am.

The Epilogue! I bring it.

Miss CAT. 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. BUL. 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 CAT. What if we leave it to the House?

Mrs BUL. The House !-Agreed.

MISS CAT. Agreed.

Mrs. BUL. 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 CAT. 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. BUL. 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 Heinel.

Miss CAT. 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 Jockey.

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. BUL. 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,

66

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.

AIR. - Ballinamony.

Miss CAT. 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. BUL. Well, Madam, what if, after all this sparring,
We both agree, like friends, to end our jarring?
Miss CAT. And that our friendship may remain unbroken,
What if we leave the Epilogue unspoken?

Mrs. BUL. Agreed.

Miss CAT. Agreed.

Mrs. BUL. And now with late repentance

Un-epilogued the Poet waits his sentence.
Condemn the stubborn fool who can't submit
To thrive by flattery, though he starves by wit.

[Excunt.

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 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 / 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 Darson.
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 stored,
As "Dam'me, Sir," and "Sir, I wear a sword,"
Here lessoned 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.