The Works of the Late Aaron Hill ... In Four Volumes. Consisting of Letters on Various Subjects, And of Original Poems, Moral and Facetious. With An Essay on the Art of Acting |
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PROLOGUE. |
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 | The Works of the Late Aaron Hill |  |
5
PROLOGUE.
In this faint age, when British growth is missing,
And dapper beaux want stilts to climb to kissing;
Ill dares an author hope your pardon granted,
Who gives a man, more woman, than he wanted.
But I, to comfort him, have been declaring,
You can forgive all sins, you take your share in.
Let me look round—aye—'tis my firm persuasion,
Your calls, that way, outgo your best occasion.
And dapper beaux want stilts to climb to kissing;
Ill dares an author hope your pardon granted,
Who gives a man, more woman, than he wanted.
But I, to comfort him, have been declaring,
You can forgive all sins, you take your share in.
Let me look round—aye—'tis my firm persuasion,
Your calls, that way, outgo your best occasion.
Two wives! what then—suppose 'em two and twenty,
Spendthrifts shou'd never frown, on other's plenty.
And pray, what right have you, to rail at changing,
Who still, quit old, for new—and live, for ranging?
Just warm one's hopes, to glowing expectation,
Then, baulk one—in the nick, of provocation:
Spendthrifts shou'd never frown, on other's plenty.
And pray, what right have you, to rail at changing,
Who still, quit old, for new—and live, for ranging?
Just warm one's hopes, to glowing expectation,
Then, baulk one—in the nick, of provocation:
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Here's, your first spouse, good reverend, Mrs, Drury!
By turns, the object of your smiles, and fury,
Has, for an age, been yours, in form, and fashion,
Lull'd every care, to sleep—sooth'd every passion;
Yet, almost in her view, you quite renounce her,
For a huge, rampant, Covent-Garden bouncer!
Fie, fie, 'tis English policy—it savours
Of want of Wit, not to divide your favours.
Now here, now there, might half disguise the treason,
Or, a wise wife wou'd wink—who found such reason.
But, to forget entirely, while you wander,
Who claims, at home, the rights, you loosely squander,
O'erturns a matron's peace, however stable,
And proves, (if not ungenerous) you're unable.
By turns, the object of your smiles, and fury,
Has, for an age, been yours, in form, and fashion,
Lull'd every care, to sleep—sooth'd every passion;
Yet, almost in her view, you quite renounce her,
For a huge, rampant, Covent-Garden bouncer!
Fie, fie, 'tis English policy—it savours
Of want of Wit, not to divide your favours.
Now here, now there, might half disguise the treason,
Or, a wise wife wou'd wink—who found such reason.
But, to forget entirely, while you wander,
Who claims, at home, the rights, you loosely squander,
O'erturns a matron's peace, however stable,
And proves, (if not ungenerous) you're unable.
Well! after all, when we no longer please ye,
'Tis want of sense, and policy, to teize ye.
Time may befriend our hopes—and, till that blessing
Comes, in its turn, once more, to our possessing;
Grant us one modest prayer—and, from that minute,
If e'er we murmur, say,—the Woman's in it:
Give us your evenings only, when we claim ye,
Lie, where you please, all night—we'll never blame ye.
'Tis want of sense, and policy, to teize ye.
Time may befriend our hopes—and, till that blessing
Comes, in its turn, once more, to our possessing;
7
If e'er we murmur, say,—the Woman's in it:
Give us your evenings only, when we claim ye,
Lie, where you please, all night—we'll never blame ye.
| The Works of the Late Aaron Hill | |