Epilogue

Your servant, friends, from Spain, you see, I'm come, A peace abroad,—but is it peace at home? The sword is sheath'd, our heroes all are quiet, A gentle woman I, and hate a riot. To pick a lover from a croud of beaus, A lady-stroke, though bold, you'll scarce oppose. To night you've had a trial of our skill In curing lethargy, that growing ill; That lifeless inattention and neglect, Which some deserve, some fear, and some expect; Say, do you like our scheme? methinks I hear A reverend sire, beyond his sixtieth year, In grumbling accents, saying, "Stuff, sad stuff! "Now there's a peace, you may have men enough:— "They want a leg, perhaps, what's that to you? "They're Frenchmen only, who make use of two. "Then stay your whining, let your bold strokes cease, "Each wound in war, is a bold stroke for peace." How weak your wit, ye lords of the creation, When set to find a woman's inclination; Her heart, though ice, the virgin fair and young, Without an ear, with double share of tongue; Let the fond youth she likes, but once appear, His dulcet voice with rapture she can hear; If she cou'd frown, by smiles her pride's disarm'd; She has a heart, when love that heart has warm'd; No tones discordant now, not even nay, While sighs to sighs responsive seem to say, In accents sweet,—"love, honour and obey." Dear liberty, farewell! from babe to wife, I've led a pretty, happy, checquer'd life; I'll tell you how, the tale's not very long, But, if you please, I'll give it you in song.

When I was a little baby, Plump and round as may be, For a lullaby I'd fret and cry, When I was a little baby.

But at six years old, how froward, Naughty girl, untoward, To dress my doll, And prate like poll, A naughty girl untoward.

At twelve, what a blooming flower! Around me every hour Butterflies gay, To sip and play, Flew round this blooming flower.

At sweet sixteen, so pretty, All I said was witty; A charming lass, So said my glass, At dear sixteen so pretty.

Love's dart no more to parry, At twenty-two to marry, To one dear youth I plight my truth, And that's the youth I'll marry.

With him I'll toy and play so, He'll wonder why I stay so; But your applause Must crown my cause, So clap your hands and say so.