The fourth act shows her wedded to the 'squire,
And madam now begins to hold it higher;
Pretends to taste, at operas cries caro!
And quits her Nancy Dawson for Che Faro.
Dotes upon dancing, and, in all her pride,
Swims round the room, the Heinel1 of Cheapside;
Ogles and leers with artificial skill,

Till, having lost in age the power to kill,
She sits all night at cards, and ogles at spadille.
Such, through our lives, the eventful history!
The fifth and last act still remains for me:
The barmaid now for your protection prays,
Turns female barrister, and pleads for bays.

1 Madame Heinel was a favorite dancer in London when this Epilogue was spoken.—P. C.

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. BULKLEY.

HOLD, Ma'am, your pardon. What's your business here?

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 blest 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!

MRS. BULKLEY.

Da Capo.

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 Oh! fatal news to tell: Their hands are only lent to the Heinel.1

MISS CATLEY.

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; 1 [A favorite dancer.]

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:
Ye jockey tribe, whose stock of words are few,
'I hold the odds.

you:'

·Done, done, with you, with

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.

AIR BALLINA MONY.

MISS CATLEY.

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.