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.-1 bonny young Lad is my Fockey.
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,
· 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 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.
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 I 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 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 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.
FROM THE ORATORIO OF "THE CAPTIVITY."
THE wretch condemned with life to part
Still, still on hope relies;
And every pang that rends the heart
Bids expectation rise.
| Hope, like the gleaming taper's light,
Adorns and cheers our way;
And still, as darker grows the night,
Emits a brighter ray.
O MEMORY, thou fond deceiver !
Still importunate and vain;
To former joys recurring ever,
And turning all the past to pain ;
Thou, like the world, opprest oppressing,
Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe,
And he who wants each other blessing
In thee must ever find a foe.
THE CLOWN'S REPLY.
JOHN TROT was desired by two witty peers
To tell them the reason why asses had ears.
"An't please you," quoth John, "I'm not given to letters,
Nor dare I pretend to know more than my betters:
Howe'er from this time I shall ne'er see your graces,
As I hope to be saved! without thinking on asses.'
EPITAPH ON EDWARD PURDON.
HERE lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery freed,
Who long was a bookseller's hack.
He led such a damnable life in this world,
I don't think he'll wish to come back.
AN ELEGY ON THAT GLORY OF HER SEX, MRS. MARY BLAIZE
GOOD people all, with one accord
Lament for Madam Blaize,
Who never wanted a good word,
From those who spoke her praise.
The needy seldom passed her door,
And always found her kind;
She freely lent to all the poor,-
Who left a pledge behind.
She strove the neighbourhood to please,
With manners wondrous winning;
And never followed wicked ways,-
Unless when she was sinning.
At church, in silks and satins new,
With hoop of monstrous size,
She never slumbered in her pew,—
But when she shut her eyes.
Her love was sought, I do aver,
By twenty beaux and more;
The king himself has followed her,-
When she has walked before.
But now her wealth and finery fled,
Her hangers-on cut short all;
The doctors found, when she was dead,-
Her last disorder mortal.
Let us lament, in sorrow sore,
For Kent-street well may say,
That had she lived a twelvemonth more,-
She had not died to-day.
INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SUNG BY MISS HARDCASTLE IN THE COMEDY OF
But I will rally, and combat the ruiner;
Not a look nor a smile shall my passion discover.
She that gives all to the false one pursuing her
Makes but a penitent, and loses a lover.
PROLOGUE TO "ZOBEIDE," A TRAGEDY.
SPOKEN BY MR. QUICK IN THE CHARACTER OF A SAXLOR.
IN these bold times, when Learning's sons explore
The distant climates and the savage shore;
When wise astronomers to India steer,
And quit for Venus many a brighter here;
While botanists, all cold to smiles and dimpling,
Forsake the fair, and patiently-go simpling;
When every bosom swells with wondrous scenes,
Priests, cannibals, and hoity-toity queens;
Our bard into the general spirit enters,
And fits his little frigate for adventures.
With Scythian stores, and trinkets, deeply laden,
He this way steers his course, in hopes of trading ;
Yet ere he lands he 'as ordered me before,
To make an observation on the shore.
Where are we driven? our reckoning sure is lost!
This seems a barren and a dangerous coast.
Lord, what a sultry climate am I under!
Yon ill-foreboding cloud seems big with thunder - [Upper gallery.
There mangroves spread, and larger than I've seen 'em- [Pit.
Here trees of stately size, and turtles in 'em
Here ill-conditioned oranges abound-
And apples (takes up one and tastes it], bitter apples, strew the
The place is uninhabited I fear :
I heard a hissing-there are serpents here!
Oh, there the natives are a dreadful race;
The men have tails, the women painted face.
No doubt they're all barbarians.-Yes, 'tis so;
I'll try to make palaver with them though :
'Tis best, however, keeping at a distance.
Good savages, our Captain craves assistance :
Our ship's well stored; in yonder creek we've laid her :
His honour is no mercenary trader.
This is his first adventure; lend him aid,
Or you may chance to spoil a thriving trade.
His goods, he hopes, are prime, and brought from far,
Equally fit for gallantry and war.
What! no reply to promises so ample?
I'd best step back-and order up a sample.
SPOKEN BY MR. LEE LEWES, IN THE CHARACTER OF HARLEQUIN, AT HIS BENEFIT.
HOLD, Prompter, hold! a word before your nonsense!
I'd speak a word or two, to ease my conscience.
My pride forbids it ever should be said
My heels eclipsed the honours of my head;
That I found humour in a piebald vest,
Or ever thought that jumping was a jest.
Whence, and what art thou, visionary birth?
Nature disowns and reason scorns thy mirth.
In thy black aspect every passion sleeps,
The joy that dimples, and the woe that weeps.
How hast thou filled the scene with all thy brood
Of fools pursuing, and of fools pursued!
Whose ins and outs no ray of sense discloses,
Whose only plot it is to break our noses;
Whilst from below the trap-door demons rise,
And from above the dangling deities.
And shall I mix in this unhallowed crew?
May rosined lightning blast me if I do!
No--I will act, I'll vindicate the stage:
Shakespeare himself shall feel my tragic rage.
Off, off, vile trappings! a new passion reigns!
The maddening monarch revels in my veins.
Oh for a Richard's voice to catch the theme!
“Give me another horse! bind up my wounds !—soft; 'twas but
Ay, 'twas but a dream, for now there's no retreating:
If I cease Harlequin, I cease from eating.
'Twas thus that sop's stag, a creature blameless,
Yet something vain, like one that shall be nameless,
Once on the margin of a fountain stood,
And cavilled at his image in the flood.
"The deuce confound," he cries, "these drumstick shanks;
They never have my gratitude nor thanks;
They're perfectly disgraceful! strike me dead!
But for a head; yes, yes, I have a head.
How piercing is that eye! how sleek that brow!
My horns! I'm told horns are the fashion now."
Whilst thus he spoke, astonished, to his view,
Near, and more near, the hounds and huntsmen drew ;
"Hoicks! hark forward!" came thundering from behind.
He bounds aloft, outstrips the fleeting wind;
He quits the woods, and tries the beaten ways;
He starts, he pants, he takes the circling maze.
At length his silly head, so prized before,
Is taught his former folly to deplore;
Whilst his strong limbs conspire to set him free,
And at one bound he saves himself,-like me.
[Taking a jump through the stage-door.
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