MISS CATLEY.
I’m for a different set.—Old men, whose trade is
Still to gallant and dangle with the ladies;— 20
Recitative.
Who mump their passion, and who, grimly smiling,
Still thus address the fair with voice beguiling:—
Air—Cotillon.
Turn, my fairest, turn, if ever
Strephon caught thy ravish’d eye;
Pity take on your swain so clever, 25
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. 30
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 hands.—Oh! fatal news to tell: 35
Their hands are only lent to the Heinel.
MISS CATLEY.
Ay, take your travellers, travellers indeed!
Give me my bonny Scot, that travels from the Tweed.
Where are the chiels? Ah! Ah, I well discern
The smiling looks of each bewitching bairn. 40