EPILOGUE

TO

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?

The Epilogue.

MISS CATLEY.

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.

* [This is the "Quarrelling Epilogue" to which allusion is made by Goldsmith in the preceding note. A copy, in his own handwriting, given to the late Dr. Farr, who was a fellow student at Edinburgh, remains in the family of that gentleman.]

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.

MISS CATLEY.

What if we leave it to the house?

MRS. BULKLEY.

The House-Agreed.

MISS CATLEY.

Agreed.

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.

MISS CATLEY.

I'm for a different set.-Old men, whose trade is
Still to gallant and dangle with the ladies.

RECITATIVE.

Who mump their passion, and who, grimly smiling,

Still thus address the fair with voice beguiling.

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.

MRS. BULKLEY.

Da Capo.

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

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.

MISS CATLEY.

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.

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
Ye barristers, so fluent with grimace,

you."

"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.

[Exeunt.

SONG.

"AH ME! WHEN SHALL I MARRY ME?*

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.

* [Preserved by Mr. Boswell, and communicated by him to the editor of the London Magazine, with the following note:

"SIR,—I send you a small production of the late Dr. Goldsmith, which has never been published, and which might perhaps have been totally lost, had I not secured it. He intended it as a song in the character of Miss Hardcastle, in his admirable comedy of “She Stoops to Conquer," but it was left out, as Mrs. Bulkley, who played the part, did not sing. He sung it himself in private companies very agreeably. The tune is a pretty Irish air, called The Humors of Balamagairy, to which, he told me, he found it very difficult to adapt words; but he has succeeded very happily in these few lines. As I could sing the tune, and was fond of them, he was so good as to give me them, about a year ago, just as I was leaving London, and bidding him adieu for that season, little apprehending that it was a last farewell. I preserve this little relic, in his own handwriting, with an affectionate care. I am, Sir, your humble servant, JAMES BOSWELL."]