 | Miscellanies (1785) |  |
EPILOGUE TO THE TRAGEDY OF THE FATAL INTERVIEW.
Pray don't be frighten'd—tho' I'm dead you know;
Grief took me off—the plot would have it so.
You saw me drop, where legions have been slain:
You see me here—well pleas'd to live again.
Grief took me off—the plot would have it so.
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You see me here—well pleas'd to live again.
This tragic Author has such comic ways!
Rise Ma'am—pray rise—the Epilogue—he says—
I rose—What miracles are work'd by bards!
Work'd too by—slight—like Jonas on the cards;
Expert the cheat, yet all a trick profess'd,
And he most pleases—who deceives you best.
Rise Ma'am—pray rise—the Epilogue—he says—
I rose—What miracles are work'd by bards!
Work'd too by—slight—like Jonas on the cards;
Expert the cheat, yet all a trick profess'd,
And he most pleases—who deceives you best.
Our Author tho', is a peculiar man,
Who kills his heroes on no hackney'd plan.
Your Blank-verse fate I've brav'd a hundred times,
And my last dying speech oft made in rhimes,
Endur'd Poetic murders by the score,
But seldom—broke my heart in Prose before.
'Twas no stock dagger gave to-night the blow,
No tragic tin—whose tricks full well you know.
Such weapons, blunted in our scenes of death,
Are grown unfit, to stop a lady's breath.
By Nature taught with other strokes to move,
Our modest bard no proud embroidery wove,
Pois'd no false poiniard to exact a start,
But drew a simple blade that reach'd the heart.
Instead of words—those bubbles in our bowl,
He touch'd the string that harrows up the soul;
Instead of pomps—he gave the true despair,
Which breathes a passion, and which looks a prayer!
Who kills his heroes on no hackney'd plan.
Your Blank-verse fate I've brav'd a hundred times,
And my last dying speech oft made in rhimes,
Endur'd Poetic murders by the score,
But seldom—broke my heart in Prose before.
'Twas no stock dagger gave to-night the blow,
No tragic tin—whose tricks full well you know.
Such weapons, blunted in our scenes of death,
Are grown unfit, to stop a lady's breath.
By Nature taught with other strokes to move,
Our modest bard no proud embroidery wove,
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But drew a simple blade that reach'd the heart.
Instead of words—those bubbles in our bowl,
He touch'd the string that harrows up the soul;
Instead of pomps—he gave the true despair,
Which breathes a passion, and which looks a prayer!
No trump indeed presag'd a battle near,
He owns, no plumage nodded o'er the bier;
He call'd not even the mantle to his aid,
That useful engine to our bustling-trade;
But spoke to Parent, Husband, Sister, Wife,
The genuine language of domestic life,
Told a chaste tale of family distress,
And less had pleas'd you, had he pain'd you less:
He rouz'd the grief which ornaments conceal,
The bosom'd pang, which all who saw may feel.
He owns, no plumage nodded o'er the bier;
He call'd not even the mantle to his aid,
That useful engine to our bustling-trade;
But spoke to Parent, Husband, Sister, Wife,
The genuine language of domestic life,
Told a chaste tale of family distress,
And less had pleas'd you, had he pain'd you less:
He rouz'd the grief which ornaments conceal,
The bosom'd pang, which all who saw may feel.
Oh then forgive, if for “the suits of woe,”
He wak'd a sorrow “that surpasseth shew;”
And think—howe'er the charms of Verse succeed,
A death in Prose resembles Death indeed.
He wak'd a sorrow “that surpasseth shew;”
And think—howe'er the charms of Verse succeed,
A death in Prose resembles Death indeed.
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For me—devoted to your gentle sway,
I live to please you, die but to obey;
Kill or am kill'd—all ways am sav'd or slain,
And now but beg my life—to die for you again!
I live to please you, die but to obey;
Kill or am kill'd—all ways am sav'd or slain,
And now but beg my life—to die for you again!
| Miscellanies (1785) | |