63

A

EPILOGUE.

Spoken by Mifs MACKLIN.

YE-now I can with pleasure look around,

Safe as I am, thank heav'n! on English ground-
In a dark dungeon to be ftow'd away,

'Midft roaring, thund'ring, danger and difmay;
Expos'd to fire and water, fword and bullet-
Might damp the heart of any Virgin pullet-
I dread to think what might have come to pass,
Had not the British Lyon quell'd the Gallic Afs-
By Champignon a wretched victim led

To cloister'd cell, or more detested bed.
My days in pray'r and fafting I had spent :
As nun or wife, alike a penitent.

His gallantry, fo confident and eager,

Had prov'd a mefs of delicate foup-maigre.

To bootlefs longings I had fallen a martyr;

But, Heav'n be praised, the Frenchman caught a Tartar.
Yet foft-our author's fate you must decree :

Shall he come fafe to port, or sink at sea?
Your fentence, fweet or bitter, soft or fore,
Floats his frail bark, or runs it bump afhore.-
Ye wits above, restrain your awful thunder;
In his first cruife, 'twere pity he should founder.
Safe from your hot, he fears no other foe,
Nor gulph, but that which horrid yawns below.
The bravest chiefs, ev'n Hannibal and Cato,
Have here been tam'd with-pippin and potatoe.
Our bard embarks in a more Christian caufe:
He craves not mercy; but he claims applaufe.
His pen against the hoftile French is drawn ;
Who damns him, is no Antigallican.
Indulg'd with fav'ring gales and smiling skies,
Hereafter he may board a richer prize.
But if this welkin angry clouds deform,

[To the Gall

[To the Pite

[Locking round the house. And hollow groans portend the approaching storm; Should the defcending fhow'rs of hail redouble, And these rough billows hifs, and boil, and bubble; He'll lanch no more on fuch fell feas of trouble.

[To the Gall.

[To the Pit..

NELL.

Pand for once make merry at home.
PRY

R'YTHEE, good Jobfon, ftay with me to-night,

Job.

Job. Peace, peace, you jade, and go fpin; for if I lack any thread for my ftitching, I will punish you by virtue of my fovereign authority.

Nell. Ay marry, no doubt of that; whilft you take your fwing at the ale-house, spend your substance, get drunk as a beaft, then come home like a fot, and use one like a dog.

Job. Nounz, do you prate? Why, how now, brazen face, do you fpeak ill of the government? Don't. you know, huffey, that I am king in my own house, and that this is treafon against my majesty..

Nell. Did ever one hear fuch ftuff! But I pray you now, Jobfon, don't go to the ale-house to-night.

Job. Well, I'll humour you for once, but don't grow faucy upon't; for I'm invited by Sir John Loverule's butler, and am to be princely drunk with punch at the hall-place; we shall have a bowl large enough to fwim

in.

Nell. But they fay, husband, the new lady will not fuffer a ftranger to enter her doors; fhe grudges even a draught of small beer to her own fervants; and feveral of the tenants have come home with broken heads from her ladyship's own hands, only for fmelling ftrong-beer in the house.

Job. A pox on her for a fanatical jade! She has almost distracted the good knight: but she's now abroad, feafting with her relations, and will fearce come home to-night; and we are to have much drink, a fiddle, and merry gambols,

Nell. O dear husband, let me go with you; we'll be as merry as the night's long.

Job. Why, how now, you hold baggage, would you be carried to a company of smooth-fac'd, eating, drinking, lazy ferving-men; no, no, you jade, I'll not be a cuckold.

Nell, I'm fure they would make me welcome; you promis'd I fhould fee the house, and the family has not been here before, fince you married and brought me home.

Job. Why, thou most audacious ftrumpet, dar'it thou difpute with me, thy lord and mafter? Get in ande

F. 3

fpin,

fpin, or elfe my ftrap fhall wind about thy ribs most

confoundedly.

AIR I. The Twitcher.

He that has the best wife,

She's the plague of his life;

But for her who will fcold and will quarrel,

Let him cut her off fhort

Of her meat and her sport,

And ten times a-day hoop her barrel, brave boys,
And ten times a-day hoop her barrel.

Nell. Well, we poor women must always be flaves, and never have any joy; but you men run and ramble at your pleasure.

Job. Why, you moft peftilent baggage, will you be hoop'd? Begone.

Nell. I must obey.

[Going. Job. Stay; now I think on't, here's fixpence for you; get ale and apples, ftretch and puff thyfelf up with lamb's wool; rejoice and revel by thyfelf; be drunk and wallow in thy own fty, like a grumbling fow as thou art. He that has the best wife,

She's the plague of his life, &c.

SCENE, Sir John's.

[Exeunt.

Butler, Cook, Footman, Coachman, Lucy, Lettice, &c.

But. I would our dancing neighbours were here, that we might rejoice a little while our termagant lady is abroad. I have made a moft fovereign bowl of punch.

Lucy. We had need rejoice fometimes, for our devilish new lady will never suffer it in her hearing.

But. I will maintain, there is more mirth in a galley than in our family. Qur mafter indeed is the worthiest gentleman-nothing but sweetness and liberality.

Foot. But here's a houfe turn'd topfy-turvy, from. heaven to hell, fince the came hither.

Luby. His former lady was all virtue and mildness. But. Ay, reft her foul, fhe was fo; but this is infpir'd with a legion of devils, who make her lay about her like a fury.

Lucy. I am fure I always feel her in my bones; if

her

her complexion don't please her, or the looks yellow in a morning, I am fure to look black and blue for it • before night.

Cook. Pox on her, I dare not come within her reach. I have fome fix broken heads already. A lady, quotha! a fhe-bear iş a civiler animál.

• Foot. Heav'n help my poor master! this devilish termagant fcolding woman will be the death of him: I never faw a man so alter'd in all the days of my life. • Cook. There's a perpetual motion in that tongue of 'her's, and a damn'd fhrill pipe, enough to break the 'drum of a man's ear.

Enter Jobfon.

But. Welcome, welcome all; this is our wish. Honeft old acquaintance,' Goodman Jobson! how doft thou?

Job. By my troth, I am always fharp-fet towards punch, and am now come with a firm refolution, tho' but a poor cobler, to be as richly drunk as a lord; I am a true English heart, and look upon drunkenness as the beft part of the liberty of the fubject.

But. Come, Jobfon, we'll bring out our bowl of punch in folemn proceffion; and then for a fong to crown' our happiness.

[They all go out, and return with a bowl of punch..

AIR II. Charles of Sweden.

Come, jolly Bacchus, god of wine,
Crown this night with pleasure ;
Let none at cares of life repine,
To deftroy our pleasure..

Fill up the mighty fparkling bowl,.
That ev'ry true and loyal foul
May drink and fing without controul,
To fupport our pleasure..

Thus, mighty Bacchus, fhalt thou be
Guardian of our pleasure ;.

That under thy protection we
May enjoy new pleasure..
And as the hours glide away,

We'll in thy name invoke their stay,

And