Mrs. Bulk. Let all the old pay homage to your
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 Heinelle. [indeed!
Miss Catl. Ay, take your travellers, travellers
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 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;
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. Bulk. Ye gamesters, who so eager in purMake but of all your fortune one va toute: [suit, 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 Assist me, I pray, in this woeful attack; [crack,
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. Bulk. Well, Madam, what if after all this sparring,
We both agree, like friends, to end our jarring? Miss Catl. And that our friendship may remain What if we leave the epilogue unspoken? [unbroken Mrs. Bulk. Agreed.
Mrs. Bulk. 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. [Exeunt.
INTENDED FOR MRS. BULKLEY.
THERE is a place, so Ariosto sings,
A treasury for lost and missing things:
Lost human wits have places there assign'd 'em,
And they, who lose their senses, there may find 'em.
But where's this place, the 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, marcaronies, cits,
Come thronging, to collect their scatter'd wits.
The gay coquet, 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 stor❜d
As 'Dam'me, Sir,' and 'Sir, I wear a sword;'
Here lessen'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.*
• This Epilogue was given in manuscript by Dr. Goldsmith to Dr. Percy, (now bishop of Dromore;) but for what comedy it was intended is not remembered.
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