University of Virginia Library

EPILOGUE. Spoken by Mrs. Barry.

How happy, Ladies, for us all—That we,
Born in this Isle, by Magna Charta free,
Are not like Spanish Wives, kept under Lock and Key.
The Spaniard now, is not like him of Yore,
Who in his whisker'd face, his Titles bore!
Nor Joy, nor Vengeance made him smile or grin,
Fix'd were his features, tho' the Devil within!
He, when once jealous, to wash out the Stain,
Stalk'd home, stabb'd Madam, and stalk'd out again.
Thanks to the times, this Dagger-drawing passion,
Thro' polish'd Europe, is quite out of Fashion.
Signor Th'Italian, quick of sight and hearing,
Once ever list'ning, and for ever leering,
To Cara Sposa, now politely kind,
He, best of Husbands, is both deaf and blind.
Mynheer the Dutchman, with his sober pace,
Whene'er he finds his Rib has wanted Grace,
He feels no Branches sprouting from his Brain,
But Calculation makes of Loss and Gain,
And when to part with her, occasion's ripe,
Mynheer turns out mine Frow, and smokes his pipe.
When a brisk Frenchman's Wife is giv'n to prancing,
It never spoils his Singing or his Dancing:
Madame, you false—de tout mon Cœur—Adieu;
Begar you Cocu me, I Cocu you.—
He, toujours gai, dispels each jealous Vapour,
Takes Snuff, sings Vive l'amour, and cuts a Caper.
As for John Bull—not he in upper Life,
But the plain Englishman, who loves his Wife;
When honest John, I say, has got his doubts,
He sullen grows, scratches his head, and pouts.
What is the Matter with you, Love? Cries She;
Are you not well, my Dearest? Humph! Cries He:
You're such a Brute!—But, Mr. Bull, I've done:
And if I am a Brute—Who made me one?
You know my tenderness—My heart's too full,
And so's my head—I thank you Mrs. Bull.
O you base Man!—Zounds, Madam, there's no bearing,
She falls a weeping, and he falls a swearing:
With Tears and Oaths, the Storm domestick ends.
The Thunder dies away, the rain descends,
She sabs, he melts, and then they kiss and Friends.
Whatever ease these modern Modes may bring,
A little Jealousy is no bad thing:
To me, who speak from Nature unrefin'd,
Jealousy is the Bellows of the Mind.
Touch it but gently, and it warms desire,
If handled roughly, you are all on Fire!
If it stands still, Affection must expire!
This Truth, no true Philosopher can doubt.
Whate'er you do—let not the Flame go out.