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,

He bows, turns round, and whip—the man's in 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.

EPILOGUE,

SPOKEN BY

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 curtsies to the Audience.

MRS. BULKLEY.

Hold, ma'am, your pardon. What's your business

MRS. BULKLEY.

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

it.

MISS CATLEY.

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. BULKLEY.

Why sure the girl's beside herself: an Epilogue of

singing,

A hopeful end indeed to such a bless'd beginning.
Besides, a singer in a comic set!

Excuse me, ma'am; I know the etiquette.

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:

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 travel'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.

MISS CATLEY.

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.

AIR.

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. BULKLEY.

Ye gamesters, who, so eager in pursuit,

Make but of all your fortune one va toute :