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. 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. Agreed. Mrs. BULKLEY. And she, who's 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. Who mump RECITATIVE. their passion, and who grimly smiling, Still thus address the fair with voice beguiling. AIR.-COTILLON. Turn, my fairest, turn, if ever 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; Give me the young, the the men of spirit. gay, Ye travelled tribe, ye macaroni train Of French friseurs, and nosegays, justly vain, To dress, and look like awkward Frenchmen here. Miss CATLEY. Ay, take your travellers, travellers indeed! Where are the cheels? Ah! Ah, I well, discern 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. Mrs. BULKLEY. Ye Gamesters, who so eager in pursuit, Make but of all your fortune one va Toute: "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, AIR.-BALLINAMONY. 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, And death is your only preventive. Your hands and your voices for me. Mrs. BULKLEY. Well, Madam, what if, after all this sparring, Miss CATLEY. And that our friendship may remain unbroken, Mrs. Mrs. BULKLEY. Agreed. Miss CATLEY. Agreed. Mrs. BULKLEY. And now with late repentance, Un-epilogued the Poet waits his sentence. [Exeunt. THERE is a place, so Ariosto sings, Lost human wits have places there assign'd them, |