EPILOGUE

ΤΟ

"SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER; OR THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT,"
Spoken by Mrs. Bulkley, in the Character of Mrs. Hardcastle.
Well, having stooped to conquer with success,
And gain'd a husband without aid from dress,
Still, as a bar-maid, I could wish it too,
As I have conquer'd him to conquer you:
And let me say, for all your resolution,
That pretty bar-maids have done execution.
Our life is all a play, compos'd to please,
"We have our exits and our entrances."
The first act shows the simple country maid,
Harmless and young, of every thing afraid;
Blushes when hir'd, and with unmeaning action,
"I hopes as how to give you satisfaction."
Her second act displays a livelier scene —
The unblushing bar-maid of a country inn,
Who whisks about the house, at market caters,

Talks loud, coquets the guests, and scolds the waiters.
Next the scene shifts to town, and there she soars,

The chop-house toast of ogling connoisseurs.
On 'squires and cits she there displays her arts,
And on the gridiron broils her lovers' hearts
And as she smiles, her triumphs to complete,
E'en common-councilmen forget to eat.
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:
Doats upon dancing, and in all her pride
Swims round the room, the Heinel 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 bar-maid now for your protection prays,
Turns female barrister, and pleads for bays.

EPILOGUE

ΤΟ

"SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER,"

Intended to be spoken by Mrs. Bulkley and Miss Catley.

Enters Mrs. BULKLEY, who curtsies very low as beginning to speak. Then enters Miss CatLEY, who stands full before her, and curtsies to the Audience.

Mrs. BULKLEY.

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

Miss CATLEY.

The Epilogue.

Mrs. BULKLEY.

The Epilogue?

Miss CATLEY.

Yes, the Epilogue, my dear.

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 blest beginning.

Besides, a sinner in a comic set

Excuse me, Ma'am, I know the etiquette.

Mrs. BULKLEY.

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.

I'm for a different set.

Miss CATLEY.

Old men, whose trade is

Still to gallant and dangle with the ladies.

RECITATIVE.

Who mump their passion, aud who, grimly smiling,
Still thus address the fair with voice beguiling.

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, bu.

Yes, I must die, ho, ho, ho, ho.

Mrs. BULKLEY.

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 frisseurs and nosegays justly vain;

Who take a trip to Paris once a-year

Da Capo.

To dress, and look like awkward Frenchmen here;
Lend me your hand. O fatal news to tell,

Their hands are only lent to the Heinelle.

Ay, take your travellers

Miss CATLEY.

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 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:

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,
"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.

Miss CATLEY.
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.
Mrs. BULKLEY.

Well, Madam, what if, after all this sparring,
We both agree, like friends, to end our jarring?
Miss CATLEY.

And that our friendship may remain unbroken,
What if we leave the Epilogue unspoken?

Agreed.

Mrs. BULKLEY.

Agreed.

Miss CATLEY.

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.

SONG.

"AH ME! WHEN SHALL I MARRY ME?"

[Exeunt.

Intended to have been sung in the Comedy of “She Stoops to Conquer."

Aн me! when shall I marry me?

Lovers are plenty; but fail to relieve me.

He, fond youth, that could carry me,

Offers to love, but means to deceive me.

But I will rally, and combat the ruiner:

Not a look, nor a smile shall my passion discover.
She that gives all to the false one pursuing her,

Makes but a penitent, and loses a lover.

EPILOGUE,

SPOKEN BY MR. LEE LEWES, IN THE CHARACTER OF HARLEQUIN, AT HIS BENEFIT.

HOLD! Prompter, hold! a word before your nonsense:

I'd speak a word or two, to ease my conscience.

My pride forbids it ever should be said,

[Takes off his mask.

My heels eclips'd the honours of my head;
That I found humour in a pyebald vest,
Or ever thought that jumping was a jest.
Whence, and what art thou, visionary birth?
Nature disowns, and reason scorns thy mirth;
In thy black aspect every passion sleeps,
The joy that dimples, and the woe that weeps.
How hast thou fill'd the scene with all thy brood
Of fools pursuing, and of fools pursued!