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Sure you mistake, Ma'am. The Epilogue I bring
Excuse me, Ma'am. The Author bid me sing it.
Ye beaux and belles, that form this splendid ring, Suspend your conversation while I sing.
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.
What if we leave it to the House ?
The House !-Agreed.
And she, whose party's largest, shall proceed.
And first I hope, you'll readily agree
I'm for a diff'rent set-Old men, whose trade is Still to gallant and dangle with the ladies.
Who mump their passion, and who, grimly smiling, Still thus address the fair, with voice beguiling.
Turn, my fairest, turn, if ever
aid must die.
Let all the old pay homage to your merit:
Ye travell’d tribe, ye macaroni train,
hands.-0 fatal news to tell, Their hands are only lent to the Heinelle.
Lend me your
Ay, take your travellers, travellers indeed!
Where are the cheels? Ah, ah, I well discern
A bonny young lad is my Jockey.
I'll sing to amuse you hy night and by day,
with your bagpipes are ready to play, My voice shall be ready to carol away,
With Sandy, and Sawney, and Jockey,
Ye gamesters, who, so eager in pursuit,
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 coutest here, and aid my party.
Ye brave Irish lads, hark away to the crack,
in this woful attack; For sure I don't wrong you, you seldom are slack, When the ladies are calling, to blush, and hang
Your hands and your voices for me.
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?
with late repentance,
Un-epilogued the Poet waits his sentence: Condemn the stubborn fool who can't submit To thrive by flatt’ry, though he starves by wit,
INTENDED FOR MRS. BULKLEY.
There is a place, so Ariosto sings,