MRS. BULKLEY AND MISS CATLEY. Enter Mrs. Bulkley, who courtesies very low as

beginning to speak. Then enter Miss Catley, who stands full before her, and courtesies to the Audience.

MRS. BULKLEY. HOLD, ma'am, your pardon. What's your bu

siness here? Miss. CATL. The Epilogue. MRS. Bulk. The Epilogue ? Miss. Catl. Yes, the Epilogue, my dear. Mrs. Bulk. Sure you mistake, ma'am. The

Epilogue? I bring it. Miss CATL. 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. Bulk. Why sure the girl's beside her

self: an Epilogue of singing, A hopeful end indeed to such a bless'd beginning. Besides, a singer in a comic set! Excuse me, ma'am;

I know the etiquette.
Miss CATL. What if we leave it to the House ?
MRS. Bulk. The House!-Agreed.
Miss CATL. 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


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 CATL. 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.


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, 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 travel'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 hands.-0, fatal news to tell, Their hands are only lent to the Heinelle. Miss Catl. Ay, take your travellers, travellers indeed!

[Tweed. Give me my bonny Scot, that travels from the


Where are the cheels! 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,
And be unco merry when you are but gay;


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. 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, • 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.

Miss CATL. Ye brave Irish lads, hark

away to the crack,


in this woful attack; For sure I don't wrong you, you seldom are slack, When the ladies are calling, to blush, and hang

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,

Assist me,

MRS. BULK. Well, madam, what if, after all

this sparring, We both


like friends, to end our jarring! Miss Catl. And that our friendship may re

main unbroken,
What if we leave the Epilogue unspoken?

MRS. BULK. Agreed.
Miss CATL. Agreed.

MRS. BULK. 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.




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,


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

Both shine at night, for but at Foote’s alone,
We scarce exhibit till the sun goes down.

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 dotes on dancing,
Taught by our art her ridicule to pause on,
Quits the ballet, and calls for Nancy Dawson.
The gamester too, whose wits 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 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 or 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.



[ocr errors]


C. Whittingham, College House, Chiswick.

« VorigeDoorgaan »