Or fhall I, (as I guess the poet may
Within these three days) fairly run away ?
No? to fome city-lodgings I'll retire;
Seem very grave, and privacy defire;
Till I am thought fome Heirefs rich in lands,
Fled to escape a cruel guardian's hands:
Which may produce a story worth the telling,
Of the next fparks that go a fortune-stealing.
PENITEN T.
Spoken by Mrs. BRACE GIRDLE, who play'd
OU fee the tripping dame could find no favour ;
Dearly fhe paid for breach of good behaviour,
Nor could her loving husband's fondness fave her.
Italian ladies lead but fcurvy lives,
There's dreadful dealing with eloping wives;
Thus 'tis, because these hufbands are obey'd
By force of laws, which for themselves they made.
With tales of old profcriptions they confine
The right of marriage-rule to their male line,
And huff, and domineer, by right divine.
Had we the pow'r, we'd make the tyrants know
What 'tis to fail in duties which they owe;
We'd teach the faunt'ring 'fquire who loves to roam,
Forgetful of his own dear spouse at home;
Who fnores at night fupinely by her side,
'Twas not for this the nuptial knot was ty'd.
The plodding petty-fogger, and the cit,
Have learn'd at least his modern way of wit:
Each ill-bred fenfelefs rogue, though ne'er fo dull,
Has the impudence to think his wife a fool;
He spends the night, where merry wags refort,
With joking clubs, and eighteen-penny port;
While fhe, poor foul's contented to regale,
By a fad fea-coal fire, with wigs and ale.
Well may the cuckold-making tribe find grace,
And fill an abfent husband's empty place:
If you wou'd e'er bring conftancy in fashion,
You men muft firft begin the reformation.
Then fhall the golden age of love return,
No turtle for her wand'ring mate shall mourn;
No foreign charms fhall caufe domestic strife,
But every married man fhall toaft his wife;
Phillis fhall not be to the country fent,
For carnivals in town to keep a tedious Lent;
Lampoons fhall ceafe, and envious scandal die,
And all shall live in peace, like my good Man and I.
WRITTEN BY MR. GARRICK.
Spoken by Mrs. BULKELEY.
'HO' I'm a female, and the rule is ever,
For us in Epilogue, to beg your favour,
Yet now I take the lead-and leaving art
And envy to the men-with a warm heart,
A woman here I come to take a woman's part.
No little jealoufies my mind perplex,
I come the friend and champion of my fex;
I'll prove, ye Fair, that let us have our wing,
We can, as well as men, do any thing;
Nay, better too, perhaps-for now and then,
Thefe Times produce much bungling among men.
In fpight of lordly wits-with force and ease,
Can't we write plays, or damn 'em, if we please?
The men, who grant not much, allow us charms-
Are eyes, shapes, dimples, then, our only arms?
To rule this man our fex dame Nature teaches :
Mount the high horse we can, and make long speeches;
Nay, and with dignity, fome wear the breeches ;
And why not wear 'em?-We fhall have your votes,
While fome of t'other fex wear petticoats.
Did not a Lady's Knight, late Chevalier,
A brave, fmart foldier to your eyes appear?
Hey Presto! pafs! his word becomes a fan,
A comely woman rising from the man!
The French their Amazonian maid invite-
She goes-alike well skilled to talk or write,
Dance, ride, negociate, fcold, coquet, or fight.
If the should fet her heart upon a rover,
And he prove falfe, she'd kick her faithlefs lover.
The Greeks and Romans own our boundless claim-
The Mufes, Graces, Virtues, Fortune, Fame,
Wisdom and Nature too, they Women call,
With this fweet flatt'ry-yet they mix fome gall-
'Twill out-the Furies too are females all.
The pow'rs of Riches, Phyfic, War, and Wine,
Sleep, Death, and Devils too-are mafculine.
Are we unfit to rule?-a poor suggestion!
Auftria and Ruffia anfwer well that question.
If joy from fenfe and matchlefs grace arife,
With your own treasure, Britons, bless your eyes.
If fuch there are-fure, in a humbler way,
The fex, without much guilt, may write a Play;
That they've done nobler things, there's no denial;
With all your judgment, then, prepare for trial-
Summon your critic pow'rs, your manhood fummon,
A brave man will protec-not hurt a woman;
Let us with modeftly to fhare with men,
If not the force, the feather of the pen.
EPILOGUE
TO THE TRAGEDY OF
WRITTEN BY MR. GARRICK.
Spoken by Mr. LEE LEWIS.
MUST, will fpeak-I hope my drefs and air
Tho' gentlemen are now forbid the scenes,
Yet have I rush'd thro' Heroes, Kings, and Queens;
Refolv'd, in pity, to this polifh'd age,
To drive thefe ballad heroes from the ftage-
"To drive the deer with hound and horn,
"Earl Percy took his way,
"The child may rue that is unborn,
"The hunting of that day."
A pretty bafis, truly, for a maudlin Play!
What! fhall a fcribbling, fenfeless woman dare
To offer to your tastes such tasteless fare?
Is Douglas, or is Percy, fir'd with paffion?
Ready for love or glory, death to dash on,
Fit company for modern ftill-life men of fashion?
Such madness will our hearts but flightly graze,
We've no fuch frantic nobles now-a-days.
Could we believe old ftories, thofe ftrange fellows
Marry'd for love-could of their wives be jealous
Nay, conftant to 'em to-and, what is worse,
The vulgar fouls thought cuckoldom a curfe.
Most wedded pairs had then one purfe, one mind.
One bed too-fo prepofterously join'd
From fuch barbarity (thank heaven) we're refin'd.
Old fongs their happinefs at home record,
From home they separate carriages abhorr'd-
One horfe ferv'd both my Lady rode behind my Lord.
Twas death alone could frap their bonds afunder-
Now tack'd fo flightly, not to fnap's the wonder.
Nay, death itself cou'd not their hearts divide,
They mix'd their love with monumental pride;
For cut in ftone, they ftill lay fide by fide.
But why thefe Gothic ancestors produce?
Why scour their rufty armours? What's the use?
'Twould not your nicer optics much regale,
To fee us Beaux bend under coats of mail;
Should we our limbs with iron doublets bruife,
Good Heaven! how much court-plaifter we fhould use!
We wear no armour now-but on our fhoes.
Let not with barbarifm true tafte be blended,
Old vulgar virtues cannot be defended.
Let the dead reft-we living can't be mended.
WRITTEN BY RICHARD CUMBERLAND, ESQ.
Spoken by Mr. HENDERSON.
O Holy Land in Superftition's Day,
When bare-foot Pilgrims trod their weary way, B Mother Church's unremitting law Scourg❜d into
grace, with fhoulders red and raw
Kneeling demure before the facred fhrine,
On the hard flint they begg'd the boon divine;
Pardon for what offending flesh had done;
And pity for the long, long courfe they'd run ;
Fines, pains and penalties, fecurely paft,
Slow-pac'd Forgiveness met their pray'r at last
Full Abfolution from conceding Rome,
Cancell'd all fin, paft, prefent, and to come.
Your Poet thus prophanely led afide,
To range o'er Tragic Land without a guide,
To pick, perhaps with no invidious aim,
A few caft fallings from the Tree of Fame:
Damn'd, tho' untry'd, by the defpotic rule
Of the ftern Doctors in Detraction's School:
Lafh'd down each column of a public page,
And driv'n o'er burning plough-fhares, to the Stage,
Be-rhim'd, be-ridicul'd with doggrel wit,
Sues out a pardon from his Pope-the Pit.
Penfive he ftands in penitential weeds,
With a huge Rofary of untold beads
Sentenc'd for paft offences to rehearse,
Ave Apollos to the God of Verfe;
And fure there's no one but an Author knows
The penance which an Author undergoes.
If then your Worships a few ftripes award
Let not your Beadles lay them on too hard;
For in the world there's not a thing fo thin,
So full of feeling, as your Poet's fkin:
|