The Ephesian Matron A Comic Serenata, After the Manner of the Italian |
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| 8. | SCENE VIII. |
 | The Ephesian Matron |  |
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SCENE VIII.
The Matron, the Maid, the Father, the Centurion.MATRON.
My father comes, and with him brings
The soldier.
MAID.
Bless us! more strange things!
FATHER.
Daughter, e'er this, I thought you dead;
And by paternal fondness led
From the city sadly came
To pay those dues the dead may claim.
But near the tomb I met this man;
Your husband's body on his back.
MATRON.
Name not my husband, Sir.—Alack!
FATHER.
First, to accuse him, I began,
And call'd him robber of the dead;
But you approv'd the deed he said;
Now, tell me, is there truth in this?
MAID.
I'll answer for my lady,—Yes.
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If that by any proof appears,
Her wedding-day she settles straight.
CENTURION.
Say, dear, how long is't I must wait?
FATHER.
Come, name your time, child.
MATRON.
Seven years.
MAID.
Sooner she cannot dry her tears
For her dear departed mate.
FATHER.
Sev'n years! prepost'rous! speak again.
MATRON.
Well, let him wait a twelve-month then.
MAID.
The time is somewhat shorten'd, Sir.
FATHER.
But still too long.
MATRON.
Well, half a year.
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Too long by half.
MATRON.
A month then, pray.
FATHER.
Daughter, you shall be his to-day.
MATRON.
To-day!
FATHER.
To-day.
MATRON.
Nay, pray, Sir, pray,
Admit a decent time for sorrow;
To day I vow, I cant allow—
It must not be—before to-morrow.
AIR AND CHORUS.
Father.
Thus, old wits, in wicked satires,
Formerly the fair malign'd;
Call'd them light, vain, false, affected,
And unsteady as the wind.
If they copy'd after nature,
Bless'd are English dames I trow,
So much alter'd from what ladies
Were two thousand years ago.
Formerly the fair malign'd;
Call'd them light, vain, false, affected,
And unsteady as the wind.
If they copy'd after nature,
Bless'd are English dames I trow,
So much alter'd from what ladies
Were two thousand years ago.
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False and mean the accusation.
Men our sex unjustly blame;
They are slaves to little passions,
And would brand us with the same.
Struck with native imperfection,
As their minds the object sours;
From themselves they draw a picture,
Then cry out the face is ours.
Men our sex unjustly blame;
They are slaves to little passions,
And would brand us with the same.
Struck with native imperfection,
As their minds the object sours;
From themselves they draw a picture,
Then cry out the face is ours.
Maid.
Says a traveller to a lion,
Upon yonder sign-post see,
How a lion like your worship's
Torn by a man like me.
Says the lion to the traveller,
'Twas a man the daubing drew;
Had a lion been the painter,
I had been a tearing you.
Upon yonder sign-post see,
How a lion like your worship's
Torn by a man like me.
Says the lion to the traveller,
'Twas a man the daubing drew;
Had a lion been the painter,
I had been a tearing you.
Centu.
No excuses, nor allusions:
Here's the burden of my song;
Women sovereigns are of nature,
And as such can ne'er be wrong.
Sent to rule, to bless, to charm us,
Spite of wit, in rancour's spite,
Ev'ry thing they say is proper,
Ev'ry thing they do is right.
Here's the burden of my song;
Women sovereigns are of nature,
And as such can ne'er be wrong.
Sent to rule, to bless, to charm us,
Spite of wit, in rancour's spite,
Ev'ry thing they say is proper,
Ev'ry thing they do is right.
FINIS.
| The Ephesian Matron | |