YOUNG BONCOUR. Sir, I know that professions, on such occasions, often pass only for words of course; but you will see, by a total reformation of my past conduct, that the whole study of my life hereafter shall be to please so generous an uncle, and so good a father.
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. What a variety of strange events has this day produced! I can't help thinking, that they might furnish out a good subject for a comedy.
MR. BONCOUR. Only a catastrophe would be wanting; because you know it is a constant rule, that comedies should end in a marriage.
SIR GEORGE BON COUR. That's true; but if the performer, who is to represent your character, should only step forward at the end, and make a smooth speech or so, an English audience is generally so good-natured, that they would pass over that, and all the other faults that might be in the piece, for the sake of the GOOD-Natured Man.
WRITTEN BY MR. GARRICK, SPOKEN BY MISS YOUNG
PROLOGUES and Epilogues-to speak the phrase
Which suits the warlike spirit of these days-
Are cannon charged, or should be charged, with wit
Which, pointed well, each rising folly hit;
By a late General who commanded here,
And fought our bloodless battles many a year!
'Mongst other favours were conferred on me,
He made me Captain of Artillery!—
At various follies many guns I fired,
Hit 'em point-blank, and thought the foe retired,-
But vainly thought-for to my great surprise,
They now are rank and file before my eyes!
Nay, to retreat may even me oblige;-
The works of Folly stand the longest siege!
With what brisk firing, and what thunder-claps,
Did I attack those high-built castle-caps!
But towering still, they swell in lofty state,
Nor strike one riband to capitulate ;-
Whilst beaus behind, thus peeping, and thus bent,
Are the besieged, behind the battlement:
But you are conquerors, ladies have no dread,
Henceforth in peace enjoy the cloud-capped head!
We scorn to ape the French, their tricks give o'er,
Nor at your rigging fire one cannon more!
And now ye Bucks and Bucklings of the age,
Though caps are clear, your hats shall feel my rage;
The high-cocked, half-cocked quaker, and the slouch,
Have at ye all!-I'll hit you, though ye crouch.
We read in history-one William Tell,
An honest Swiss, with arrow shot so well,
On his son's head, he aimed with so much care,
He'd hit an apple, and not touch one hair:
So I, with such-like skill, but much less pain,
Will strike your hats off, and not touch your brain:
To curse our head-dress! an't you pretty fellows!
Pray who can see through your broad-brimmed umbrellas?
That pent-house worn by slim Sir Dainty Dandle
Seems to extinguish a poor farthing candle-
We look his body through-But what fair she
Through the broad cloud that's round his head can see?
Time was, when Britons to the boxes came
Quite spruce, and chapeau bas! addressed each dame.
Now in flapt hats and dirty boots they come,
Look knowing thus-to every female dumb;
But roar out-Hey, Jack! So, Will! You there, Tom?
Both sides have errors, that there's no concealing;
We'd lower our heads, had but men's hearts some feeling.
Valence, my spark, played off his modish airs,
But nature gave us wit to cope with theirs;
Our sex have some small faults won't bear defending,
And though near perfect, want a little mending;
Let Love step forth, and claim from both allegiance,
And bring back caps and hats to due obedience.
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