Sung at Vaux-Hall immediately after the Recantation ; by Mr Lowe, Miss Norris, and Miss Stephenson

Miss Norris.

Thou traitor, who with the fair-sex hast made war,
Come forward, and hold up your hand at the bar;
By a jury of damsels you now must be try'd,
For having your betters traduc'd and bely'd.

Miss Stephenson.

How could'st thou such base defamation devise,
And not have the fear of our sex in your eyes!
Is all decency gone — all good breeding forgot?
Speak, varlet, and plead — Art thou guilty or not?

Mr. Lowe.

Not guilty I plead — but submit to the laws,
And with pleasure I yield to these fair ones my cause;
But still, that my trial more just may appear,
Speak louder and faster , or how should I hear?

Miss Norris.

Hast thou not presum'd to alarm each bright toast,
By the conjuring up of an old English ghost;
And made fusty Chaucer, without a pretext,
Snarl posthumous nonsense against the fair-sex?

Miss Stephenson.

Hast thou not presum'd to alarm each bright maid,
With that common-place trash, that each virgin must fade;
And, without fear or wit, most assuming and bold,
Hast dar'd to suggest that we paint and we scold?

Mr. Lowe.

For want of experience, when I was but young,
Perhaps, such strange falshoods might drop from my tongue;
But when I recanted for all my sins past,
I thought I had made you amends at the last.

Miss Norris.

I'll promise you, friend, you shall duly be paid
For the ample amends that you lately have made;
I find by your shuffling the whole charge is true,
So I bring you in guilty without more ado.

Miss Stephenson.

Ironical wits, like destroyers of game,
When they hide in a bush, 'tis to take surer aim —
By his shuffling I find too the whole charge is true,
So I bring him in guilty as willing as you.

Mr. Lowe.

Convicted I stand, and submit to my fate;
And fain would repent, but I find it too late;
If death then, alas! is to be my reward,
Why, then I must die — but, by Jove, I'll die hard.

Miss Stephenson.

Since to lengths so unbounded his malice he carried,
To hang him were kindness —

Miss Norris.

No, let, let him be married,
To some musty old maid, that's the dev'l of a shrew,
That will scold him —

Miss Stephenson.

And beat him,

Miss Norris.

And cuckold him too.

Both together.

To some musty old maid, that's the dev'l of a shrew,
That will scold him, and beat him, and cuckold him too.