 | Hibernia Freed |  |
58
EPILOGUE Spoken by Mrs. Bullock.
Well
! of all Men who plague this happy Age,
None shew less Sense, than Writers for the Stage.
To prove our Author such, a wheedling Rogue!
Madam, cries he, accept this Epilogue.
Your Charms will soften all our Critick Foes,
You please the Ladies, and subdue the Beaux.
Impertinent! to think I'll whine and pray,
To get Success to his dull Moral Play.
While I for three long Acts neglected sat,
Another was pursu'd with amorous Chat.
Nay almost forced! I, in my Turn, deny'd,
But one's not always angry to be try'd.
Whate're Resentment Decency demands,
The Lover should not fall by Hang-mens Hands.
He should have made me shine in every Scene,
And treat both Lovers with a cold Disdain.
For well our Sex can tell, the Pleasure's sweet,
When Lordly Man lies crouching at our Feet;
When we the Lover treat with scornful Air,
And tho' just yielding, drive him to Despair.
None shew less Sense, than Writers for the Stage.
To prove our Author such, a wheedling Rogue!
Madam, cries he, accept this Epilogue.
Your Charms will soften all our Critick Foes,
You please the Ladies, and subdue the Beaux.
Impertinent! to think I'll whine and pray,
To get Success to his dull Moral Play.
While I for three long Acts neglected sat,
Another was pursu'd with amorous Chat.
Nay almost forced! I, in my Turn, deny'd,
But one's not always angry to be try'd.
Whate're Resentment Decency demands,
The Lover should not fall by Hang-mens Hands.
He should have made me shine in every Scene,
And treat both Lovers with a cold Disdain.
For well our Sex can tell, the Pleasure's sweet,
When Lordly Man lies crouching at our Feet;
When we the Lover treat with scornful Air,
And tho' just yielding, drive him to Despair.
Barr'd of these Pleasures, what can he expect?
What Woman e're forgave a cold Neglect?
No: let him find some other to excuse,
And beg Remission for his whining Muse.
As well the Bubbles, late of high Renown,
Might hope for Mercy from an injur'd Town.
Tis true, in them his Tribe had little Share,
They scorn dull Earth, soar high, and live on Air.
For tho' some Poets have been found Projectors,
I never heard of any were Directors.
What Woman e're forgave a cold Neglect?
No: let him find some other to excuse,
And beg Remission for his whining Muse.
As well the Bubbles, late of high Renown,
Might hope for Mercy from an injur'd Town.
59
They scorn dull Earth, soar high, and live on Air.
For tho' some Poets have been found Projectors,
I never heard of any were Directors.
What's this to me? my Injuries remain;
From You I may some Recompence obtain.
Should some of you depart this Place content,
Let him not fancy that for him 'tis meant.
Let me prevail; resent my slighted Cause,
And justify my Wrath by your Applause.
From You I may some Recompence obtain.
Should some of you depart this Place content,
Let him not fancy that for him 'tis meant.
Let me prevail; resent my slighted Cause,
And justify my Wrath by your Applause.
FINIS.
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