What Visions now crowd on my Sight! White Rob'd--with Eyes bent on the ground! Ah! me--'tis a Funeral Rite-- I hear the deep Bell's solemn sound. It tells me my Sorrows will close, On Care's softest pillow all lye The Grave will extinguish my woes Then Sarah--prepare thee to die! (_Exit._) * * * * * _Scene 9^{th}_ _Servants_ attending--Enter _Rake_ follow'd by _Clown_, who is ridiculously dress'd--_Rake_ gives Orders to _Servants_ and Exit--_Clown_ follows a little way--then conceitedly returns & Sings to Servants. _Song. Clown._ Quite a Clod I came up my Shoes tied with a thong, Lookd foolish--quite mulish I trudg'd it along, And gaz'd like an Oaf at the wonderful throng, That here so gay smart & brave are; A ninny--the Twaddle--Lord quite a mere Hic A terrible bore--quite a Thing--a Queer Stick-- But now, I'm the tippee--the dandy--the kick-- "Look here--here again--here again--here" (_Spoke_) Tol de rol, de rol, la rol lol, la rol, lal la Oh, Damme! I'm devilish clever. (2.) For Band Regulations to Butchells I pop My ankles just hid by a Natty Boot-top, Pig-tails are a Bore so I mount the neat Crop To appear the clean thing's my Endeavour My negligent coat-cape proclaims me the Beau Ease & Elegance always are habited so I'm the tippee--the dandy--the kick too--heigho! "Look here &c &c &c (3.) The Girls all admire me--each fancy I please, To one give a leer, tip the other a Squeeze, Blow a kiss to the Third--for you see I'm all ease And each Whispers thanks for the favour Boh--Damme!--an oath I so pleasantly swear And for Duels--Bounce--Bang--let them fight me who dare I'm the tippee--the Dandy--the Kick too--look there-- There again &c &c-- _Exit_ Noise without. Enter _Porter_ with a _Washing Machine_, puts it down--Enter Beat'em, pursued by Washerwomen, who beat him & break his washing machine--Tear his Bills &c &c two or three of the _Women_ hold him, while an _Irish Washerwoman_ sings the following _Song_. _Song Shelah O'Sudds--Tune "The Siege of Troy."_ Och! Mr. Acrostic I hate your big notes, In op'ning your Mouth, why you'd stop all our Thoats; Wid Natty Men Milliners, Och! You'd be even, And Starve all the Fair-Sex wid Men-Washer-Women. But leave off such Nonsense 'tis better, my Joy, Than let Shelah O'Sudds be widout her Employ; We'll beat all your Beat'ems but give us fair-play While wid Elbows & Fists we lather away.