There Hebes, turn'd of fifty, try once more
To raise a flame in Cupids of threescore.
These, in their turn, with appetites as keen,
Deserting fifty, fasten on fifteen.

Miss, not yet full fifteen, with fire uncommon,
Flings down her sampler, and takes up the woman;
The little urchin smiles, and spreads her lure,
And tries to kill, ere she's got power to cure.
Thus 'tis with all-their chief and constant care
Is to seem everything but what they are.

Yon broad, bold, angry spark I fix my eye on,
Who seems to have robb'd his vizor from the lion;
Who frowns, and talks, and swears, with round parade,
Looking, as who should say, Dam'me! who's afraid?

Strip but this vizor off, and sure I am
You'll find his lionship a very lamb.

Yon politician, famous in debate,

Perhaps, to vulgar eyes, bestrides the state;
Yet, when he deigns his real shape to assume,
He turns old woman, and bestrides a broom.
Yon patriot, too, who presses on your sight,
And seems to every gazer all in white,

If with a bribe his candour you attack,

[Mimicking.

He bows, turns round, and whip-the man's a black!
Yon critic, too--but whither do I run?

If I proceed, our bard will be undone!

Well, then, a truce, since she requests it too:

Do you spare her, and I'll for once spare you.

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?

The Epilogue.

MISS CATLEY.

MRS. BULKLEY.

The Epilogue?

MISS CATLEY.

Yes, the Epilogue, my dear.

MRS. BULKLEY.

Sure you mistake, Ma'am. The Epilogue? I bring it.

Excuse me, Ma'am.

MISS CATLEY.

The Author bid me sing it.

Recitative.

Ye beaux and belles, that form this splendid ring,
Suspend your conversation while I sing.

MRS. BULKLEY.

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!

Excuse me, Ma'am, I know the etiquette.

MISS CATLEY.

What if we leave it to the House?

MRS. BULKLEY.

The House!-Agreed.

MISS CATLEY.

MRS. BULKLEY.

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;
Ye candid-judging few, hold up your hands;
What, no return? I find too late, I fear,
That modern judges seldom enter here.

MISS CATLEY.

I'm for a different set,-old men, whose trade is
Still to gallant and dangle with the ladies—

Agreed.

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 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. BULKLEY.

Let all the old pay homage to your merit:
Give me the young, the gay, the men of spirit.

Ye travell'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.-O fatal news to tell!

Their hands are only lent to the Heinel.*

MISS CATLEY.

Ay, take your travellers-travellers, indeed!

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

Where are the chiels? Ah! ah! I well discern

The smiling looks of each bewitching bairn.

* A popular dancer at the Opera House, in 1773.

Air.-A bonnie 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 Sawnie, and Jockey,
With Sawnie, and Jarvie, and Jockey.

MRS. BULKLEY.

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 CATLEY.

Air-Ballinamony.

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.