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INTENDED EPILOGUE TO “SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.”

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. 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 !-

Éxcuse 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 nie.
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 !
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,

Da capo.

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. Bur.. 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.

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

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 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.

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FROM THE ORATORIO OF “THE CAPTIVITY."

SONG,
THE wretch condemned with life to part | Hope, like the gleaming taper's light,
Still, still on hope relies ;

Adorns and cheers our way;
And every pang that rends the heart And still, as darker grows the night,
Bids expectation rise.

Emits a brighter ray.

SONG, FROM THE SAME. O MEMORY, thou fond deceiver !

Thou, like the world, opprest oppressing, Still importunate and vain;

Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe, To former joys recurring ever,

And he who wants each other blessing And turning all the past to pain ;

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 At church, in silks and satins new, Lament for Madam Blaize,

With hoop of monstrous size, Who never wanted a good word,

She never slumbered in her pew,From those who spoke her praise.

But when she shut her eyes. The needy seldom passed her door, Her love was sought, I do aver, And always found her kind ;

By twenty beaux and more; She freely lent to all the poor,

The king himself has followed her, -Who left a pledge behind.

When she has walked before.
She strove the neighbourhood to please, But now her wealth and finery fled,

With manners wondrous winning ; Her hangers-on cut short all ;
And never followed wicked ways, The doctors found, when she was dead, -
Unless when she was sinning.

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.

SONG:

IXTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SUNG BY MISS HARDCASTLE IN THE COMEDY OF

SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.”.
AIR.— The Humours of Ballamagairy.
Ah me! when shall I marry me?

Lovers are plenty, but fail to relieve me.
He, fond youth, that could carry me,

Offers to love, but means to deceive me.

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 SA LOR.

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- [Balconies.
Here ill-conditioned oranges abound

[Stage. And apples (takes up one and tastes it], bitter apples, strew the

ground: 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: [Making signs. '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.

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