EPILOGUE.
Mrs. Qu.O Bravo, Colonel! Muſick is my Flame.
Ld. Min.And mine, by Jupiter!—We've won the Game.
Col. T.What, do you love all Muſick?
Mrs. Qu. No, not Handel's.
And naſty Plays—
Ld. Min. Are fit for Goths and Vandals.
From the Piquette Table.
Sir Pat.Well, faith and troth! that Shakeſpeare was no Fool!
Col. T.I'm glad you like him, Sir!—So ends the P ol!
SONG by the Colonel.
I hate all their Nonſenſe,
Their Shakeſpears and Johnſons,
Their Plays, and their Play-houſe, and Bards:
'Tis ſinging, not ſaying;
A Fig for all playing,
But playing, as we do, at Cards!
I love to ſee Jonas,
Am pleas'd too with Comus;
Each well the Spectator rewards.
So clever, ſo neat in
Their Tricks, and their Cheating!
Like them we would fain deal our Cards.
Sir Pat.King Lare is touching!—And how fine to ſee
Ould Hamlet's Ghoſt!—"To be, or not to be."—
What are your Op'ras to Othello's roar?
Oh, he's an Angel of a Blackamoor!
Ld. Min.What, when he choaks his Wife?—
Col. T. And calls her Whore?
Sir Pat.King Richard calls his Horſe—and then Macbeth,
When e'er he murders—takes away the Breath.
My Blood runs cold at ev'ry Syllable,
To ſee the Dagger—that's inviſible. (All laugh.)
Sir Pat.Laugh if you pleaſe, a pretty Play—
Ld. Min. Is pretty.
Sir Pat.And when there's Wit in't—
Col T. To be ſure 'tis witty.
Sir Pat.I love the Play-houſe now—ſo light and gay,
With all thoſe Candles, they have ta'en away!
(All laugh.)
For all your Game, what makes it ſo much brighter?
Col. T.Put out the Light, and then—
Ld. Min. 'Tis ſo much lighter.
Sir Pat.Pray do you mane, Sirs, more than you expreſs?
Col. T.Juſt as it happens—
Ld. Min. Either more, or leſs.
