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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 curtjies to the Audience.
Mrs. BULKLEY. HOLD, Ma'am, your pardon. What's your bufiness 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 / bring it.
Miss CATLEY. Excuse me, Ma'am. The Author bid me sing it.
Ye beaux and belles, that form this splendid ring,
Suspend your conversation while I sing.
Why sure the Girl's beside herself: an Epilogue of
A hopeful end indeed to such a blest beginning.
Besides, a finger in a comic fet !
Excuse me, Ma'am, I know the etiquette,
What if we leave it to the House?
Mrs. BULKLEY. The House !-Agreed.
And she, who's 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.
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
Still 'thus address the fair with voice beguiling.
AIRCOTILLON, Turn, my fairelt, turn, if ever Strephon caught thy ravish'd eye. Pity take on your swain so clever, Who without
aid must die.
Yes, I shall die, hu, hu, hu, hu,
Yes, I must die, ho, ho, ho, ho.
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 nofegays, justly vain,
Who take a trip to Paris once a year
To dress, and look like awkward Frenchmen her
Lend me your hands. --O fatal news to tell,
Their hands are only lent to the Heinelle.
Ay, take your travellers, travellers indeed !
Give me my bonny Scot, that travels from the Tweed.
Where are the Cheels ?. Ah! Ah, I well discern
The smiling looks of each bewitching bairne.
A bonny young lad is my Jockey.
I'll fing 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.
Ye Gamesters, who fo eager in pursuit,
Make but of all
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,
Aflift my cause with hands and voices hearty,
Come end the contest here, and aid my party.
Ye brave Irish lads, hark away to the crack,
Affist me, I pray, in this woful attack ;
For sure I don't wrong you, you seldom are Nack,
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.
Well, Madam, what if, after all this sparring,
We both agree, like friends, to end our jarring?
And that our friendship may remain unbroken,
What if we leave the Epilogue unspoken?
Mrs. BULKLEY. Agreed.
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.