EPILOGUE TO THE COMEDY OF THE SISTERS.1 WHAT? five long acts-and all to make us wiser! Had she consulted me, she should have made thinking. Well, since she thus has shown her want of skill, What if I give a masquerade ?—I will. But how? ay, there's the rub! [pausing]—I've got my cue: you. The world's a masquerade! the masquers, you, you, [To Boxes, Pit, and Gallery. Lud! what a group the motley scene discloses! False wits, false wives, false virgins, and false spouses ! Statesmen with bridles on; and, close beside 'em, Patriots in party-colour'd suits that ride 'em. 2 The Sisters] A comedy by Mrs. Charlotte Lennox, 1769, taken from the authoress's own novel, Henrietta.' It was performed only one night. The author of the Biographia Dramatica says that this epilogue is the best that has appeared the last thirty years.' There Hebes, turn'd of fifty, try once more Miss, not yet full fifteen, with fire uncommon, parade, Looking, as who should say, dam'me! who's afraid? [Mimicking. Strip but this vizor off, and sure I am [black! EPILOGUE, SPOKEN BY MRS. BULKLEY 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? 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 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. I've all the critics and the wits for me. They, I am sure, will answer my commands, 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. Let all the old pay homage to your merit: Of French friseurs, and nosegays, justly vain, To dress, and look like awkward Frenchmen here; 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, gay; |