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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.

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. Oh! fatal news to tell:

Their hands are only lent to the Heinel.

Ay, take your travelers—travelers indeed!

Give me my bonny Scot, that travels from the Tweed. 38

Where are the chiels? Ah, ah ! I well discern

The smiling looks of each bewitching bairn.

Air. A bonnie 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.


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—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–

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Assist my cause with hands and voices hearty;

Come, end the contest here, and aid my party.


Air. Ballinamony.

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.

Well, madam, what if, after all this sparring,

We both agree, like friends, to end our jarring 7

And that our friendship may remain unbroken,

What if we leave the epilogue unspoken? 68





MRs. BULKLEY. 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. 72 [Ereunt.


written yon


TheRE is a place—so Ariosto sings— A treasury for lost and missing things; Lost human wits have places there assign'd them— And they who lose their senses, there may find them. But where's this place, this storehouse of the age 7

The moon, says he – but I affirm, the stage:

" From The Miscellaneous Works, 1801. — This epilogue, which had been given by its author to the Rev. Thomas Percy, was first published in the above collection. It is there described as An epilogue intended for Mrs. Bulkley; but it is stated, in a note, “for what comedy it was intended is not remembered.” Neither Steevens nor Reed could give the information required. Now, the letter appended to the quarreling epilogue decides the question: it is the second attempt of its author—

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