my true and lawful wife. So Constance Neville may marry whom she pleases, and Tony Lumpkin is his own man again. SIR CHA. O brave 'squire!
HAST. My worthy friend!
MRS. HARD. My undutiful offspring!
MAR. Joy, my dear George! I give you joy sincerely. And could I prevail upon my little tyrant here to be less arbitrary, I should be the happiest man alive, if you would return me the favour. HAST. [to MISS HARDCASTLE]. Come, madam, you are now driven to the very last scene of all your contrivances. I know you like him, I'm sure he loves you, and you must and shall have him. HARD. [joining their hands]. And I say so, too. And, Mr. Marlow, if she makes as good a wife as she has a daughter, I don't believe you'll ever repent your bargain. So now to supper: to-morrow we shall gather all the poor of the parish about us, and the mistakes of the night shall be crowned with a merry morning; so boy, take her; and as you have been mistaken in the mistress, my wish is, that you may never be mistaken in the wife.
WELL, having stooped to conquer with success,
And gained a husband without aid from dress,
Still as a Barmaid, I could wish it too,
As I have conquered him to conquer you:
And let me say, for all your resolution,
That pretty Barmaids have done execution.
Our life is all a play, composed to please,
"We have our exits and our entrances.'
The first act shows the simple country maid,
Harmless and young, of everything afraid;
Blushes when hired, and with unmeaning action,
I hopes as how to give you satisfaction.
Her second act displays a livelier scene,—
Th' unblushing Barmaid 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,
Even 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 Barmaid now for your protection prays,
Turns female Barrister, and pleads for Bayes.
TO BE SPOKEN IN THE CHARACTER OF TONY LUMPKIN
WELL-now all's ended-and my comrades gone,
Pray what becomes of mother's nonly son?
A hopeful blade!—in town I'll fix my station,
And try to make a bluster in the nation.
As for my cousin Neville, I renounce her,
Off-in a crack-I'll carry big Bet Bouncer.
Why should not I in the great world appear?
I soon shall have a thousand pounds a year.
No matter what a man may here inherit,
In London-'gad, they've some regard for spirit.
I see the horses prancing up the streets,
And big Bet Bouncer bobs to all she meets;
Then hoikes to jiggs and pastimes ev'ry night-
Not to the plays-they say it a'n't polite,
To Sadler's-Wells perhaps, or operas go,
And once by chance, to the roratorio.
Thus here and there, for ever up and down,
We'll set the fashions too, to half the town;
And then at auctions-money ne'er regard,
Buy pictures like the great, ten pounds a yard.
Zounds, we shall make these London gentry say,
We know what's damned genteel, as well as they.
1 This came too late to be spoken.
6
INTENDED FOR SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER'
Enter MRS BULKLEY, who curtsies very low as beginning to speak.
Then enter MISS CATLEY, who stands full before her, and curtsies
MRS BUL. Hold, Ma'am, your pardon. What's your business here? MISS CAT. The Epilogue.
MRS. BUL. The Epilogue?
MISS CAT. Yes, the Epilogue, my dear.
MRS. BUL. Sure you mistake, Ma'am. The Epilogue, I bring it MISS CAT. 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.
MRS. BUL. Why, sure the girl's beside herself: an Epilogue of
A hopeful end indeed to such a blest beginning.
Besides, a singer in a comic set!—
Excuse me, Ma'am, I know the etiquette.
MISS CAT. What if we leave it to the House?
MRS. BUL. The House!-Agreed.
MISS CAT. Agreed.
MRS. BUL. And she, whose party's largest, shall proceed.
At 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.
MISS CAT. I'm for a different 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
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. BUL. 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 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.
MISS CAT. Ay, take your travellers, 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.
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. BUL. 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 called in a little sooner,'
Assist my cause with hands and voices hearty,
Come end the contest here, and aid my party.
MISS CAT. 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. BUL. Well, Madam, what if, after all this sparring,
We both agree, like friends, to end our jarring ?
MISS CAT. And that our friendship may remain unbroken,
What if we leave the Epilogue unspoken?
MRS. BUL. Agreed.
MISS CAT. Agreed.
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.
INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SPOKEN BY MRS. BULKLEY
FOR SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER'
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?
The Moon, says he :-but I affirm the Stage:
At least in many things, I think, I see
His lunar and our mimic world agree.
Both shine at night, for, but at Foote's alone,
We scarce exhibit till the sun goes down.
Both prone to change, no settled limits fix,
And sure the folks of both are lunatics.
But in this parallel my best pretence is,
That mortals visit both to find their senses.
To this strange spot rakes, macaronies, cits,
Come thronging to collect their scatter'd wits.
The gay coquette, who ogles all the day,
Comes here at night, and goes a prude away.
Hither the affected city dame advancing,
Who sighs for operas, and doats on dancing,
Taught by our art her ridicule to pause on,
Quits the ballet, and calls for Nancy Dawson.
The gamester, too, whose wit's all high or low,
Oft risks his fortune on one desperate throw,
Comes here to saunter, having made his bets,
Finds his lost senses out, and pays his debts.
The Mohawk too, with angry phrases stored,
As Dam'me, Sir,' and 'Sir, I wear a sword,'
Here lesson'd for a while, and hence retreating,
Goes out, affronts his man, and takes a beating.
Here come the sons of scandal and of news,
But find no sense- -for they had none to lose.
Of all the tribe here wanting an adviser
Our Author's the least likely to grow wiser;
Has he not seen how you your favour place,
On sentimental queens and lords in lace?
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