Hope, like the glimmering taper's light, Adorns and cheers the way; And still, as darker grows the night, Emits a brighter ray. STANZAS. Weeping, murmuring, complaining, Lost to every gay delight, Myra, too sincere for feigning, Fears th'approaching bridal night. Yet why impair thy bright perfection? Or dim thy beauty with a tear? Had Myra follow'd my direction, She long had wanted cause of fear. * * * * * 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? MISS CATLEY. The Epilogue. 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. _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 singer 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.—Cotillion._ 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! _Da Capo._ MRS. BULKLEY. 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 friseurs 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.