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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Epilogue, to the same Play, spoke by the Person, who represented Amelia.
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 | The Works of the Late Aaron Hill |  |
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Epilogue, to the same Play, spoke by the Person, who represented Amelia.
I've 'scap'd, to-night, two terrible disasters,
My honour's indignation—and my master's:
And heaven best knows, what hapless, hole can hide me,
If (to crown all my woes) your help's deny'd me.
My honour's indignation—and my master's:
And heaven best knows, what hapless, hole can hide me,
If (to crown all my woes) your help's deny'd me.
Ladies!—you see, how much expos'd our sex is:
Sleeping or waking—some sad chance perplexes.
Man's a more wily Snake, than mother Eve's was;
In his own shape—and others to—deceives us:
Hungry devourer! never tir'd, with snapping;—
Shun him, with open eyes, he'll catch us napping.
Rise, fall—run, stay—standing upright, or lying,
One way, or t'other, he's forever trying—
And, how to 'scape him, if I know—ne'er let me
Break thro' th' entangling nets, that thus beset me.
Sleeping or waking—some sad chance perplexes.
Man's a more wily Snake, than mother Eve's was;
In his own shape—and others to—deceives us:
Hungry devourer! never tir'd, with snapping;—
Shun him, with open eyes, he'll catch us napping.
Rise, fall—run, stay—standing upright, or lying,
One way, or t'other, he's forever trying—
And, how to 'scape him, if I know—ne'er let me
Break thro' th' entangling nets, that thus beset me.
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Now, Gentlemen!—to your own thoughts, appealing,
(Fitter, I doubt, for making wounds,—than healing!)
—What would you have have poor woman do with Honour?
When Danger heaps such monst'rous loads upon her!
—D'ye think, in conscience now—half-wak'd, half-weary,
With frights fore-gone—for one's departed deary—
T' had been so strange a crime?—or worth such pother?
—In darkness—to mistake one's buss for t'other?
Pray think on't—put yourselves behind the curtain:
What can't be cur'd must be endur'd—that's certain.
'Tis a fair question;—and 'tis plainly ask'd ye:
Answer it—or confess, I've overtask'd ye.
Suppose me, bound, in sleep's soft silken fetter,
And one of your dear selves the dark besetter.
Sight has no eyes, at midnight—and for touches,
Joan (says the proverb) in the dark's—a Dutchess.
(Fitter, I doubt, for making wounds,—than healing!)
—What would you have have poor woman do with Honour?
When Danger heaps such monst'rous loads upon her!
—D'ye think, in conscience now—half-wak'd, half-weary,
With frights fore-gone—for one's departed deary—
T' had been so strange a crime?—or worth such pother?
—In darkness—to mistake one's buss for t'other?
Pray think on't—put yourselves behind the curtain:
What can't be cur'd must be endur'd—that's certain.
'Tis a fair question;—and 'tis plainly ask'd ye:
Answer it—or confess, I've overtask'd ye.
Suppose me, bound, in sleep's soft silken fetter,
And one of your dear selves the dark besetter.
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Joan (says the proverb) in the dark's—a Dutchess.
For
my part—I can't find, we've any senses,
Can furnish such attacks, with fit defences:
If Wedlock's towns lie open, (foes too nigh 'em)
E'en, let the Liege Lord Husband fortify 'em,
—Not safe in one's own bed, without concluding,
That one of love's stray gnats will be intruding,
Let trusty spouse, when bus'ness sends him packing,
(Safe bind, safe find)—leave no due caution lacking.
Let him place round, lest some night insect eat us,
Nettings of wyre—to keep of Man-musketa's.
Bold must besiegers be, who, then, dare venture,
Where they must storm two forts, before they enter!
Can furnish such attacks, with fit defences:
If Wedlock's towns lie open, (foes too nigh 'em)
E'en, let the Liege Lord Husband fortify 'em,
—Not safe in one's own bed, without concluding,
That one of love's stray gnats will be intruding,
Let trusty spouse, when bus'ness sends him packing,
(Safe bind, safe find)—leave no due caution lacking.
Let him place round, lest some night insect eat us,
Nettings of wyre—to keep of Man-musketa's.
Bold must besiegers be, who, then, dare venture,
Where they must storm two forts, before they enter!
I see some judge-like eyes, that look too sprightly,
To miss a She law-point, put to 'em rightly.
Is mine the court's decree?—I humbly move it,
That, if your hearts affirm—your hands approve it.
To miss a She law-point, put to 'em rightly.
Is mine the court's decree?—I humbly move it,
That, if your hearts affirm—your hands approve it.
| The Works of the Late Aaron Hill | |