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MRS. BULKLEY AND MISS CATLEY.
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. Bulk. The epilogue!
Miss Cat. Yes, the epilogue, my dear.
I bring it.
Miss Cat. Excuse me, ma'am.
The author bid me
Ye beaux and belles, that form this splendid ring,
Suspend your conversation while I sing.
Mrs. Bulk. Why sure the girl's beside herself: an epi
logue of singing,
A hopeful end indeed to such a blessed 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. Bulk. The house!-Agreed.
Miss Cat. Agreed.
Mrs. Bulk. 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;
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.
Who mump their passion, and who, grimly smiling,
Turn, my fairest, turn, if ever
Yes, I shall die, hu, hu, hu, hu,
Yes, I must die, ho, ho, ho, ho. Da capo.
Mrs. Bulk. 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,
To dress, and look like awkward Frenchmen here,
Their hands are only lent to the Heinelle.
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:
A bonny young lad is my Jockey.
I'll sing to amuse you by night and by day,
When you with your bagpipes are ready to play,
With Sandy, and Sawney, and Jockey,
With Sawney, and Jarvie, and Jockey.
Mrs. Bulk. 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,
"My lord-your lordship misconceives the case:"
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,
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. Bulk. 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. Bulk. Agreed.
Miss Cat. Agreed.
Mrs. Bulk. 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. [Exeunt.
INTENDED FOR MRS. BULKLEY.
THERE is a place, so Ariosto sings,
A treasury for lost and missing things:
Lost human wits have places there assigned 'em,
But where's this place, this storehouse of the age?
Here lessoned for a while, and hence retreating,
How can the piece expect or hope for quarter?
1 This epilogue was given in MS. by Dr. Goldsmith to Dr. Percy, (late Bishop of Dromore;) but for what comedy it was intended is not remembered.