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.
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 | The Works of the Late Aaron Hill |  |
Epilogue, to the same Play.
If only novelty can give delight,
I fear, we've lost that favourite plea to night:
What meant the Poet, when he hop'd success,
From making man and master change their dress?
'Tis now so long, since this was thought a wonder,
That none but men of taste know 'em asunder.
Fam'd, for associate airs, the rivals quarrel,
Which shall trip tightest in its next apparel.
Improving, each by each, so fast, that neither
Excells—but all are charm'd, alike, with either.
I fear, we've lost that favourite plea to night:
What meant the Poet, when he hop'd success,
From making man and master change their dress?
'Tis now so long, since this was thought a wonder,
That none but men of taste know 'em asunder.
Fam'd, for associate airs, the rivals quarrel,
Which shall trip tightest in its next apparel.
Improving, each by each, so fast, that neither
Excells—but all are charm'd, alike, with either.
Well! 'tis an humble age, when pride and greatness,
Give up ambition, for long sticks and straitness:
When conscious, none were gentry by creation,
Peers drive out pomp, and level all the nation;
And crop-ear'd knights instruct the herald prater,
Tom and Sir Thomas, are the same, by nature.
Joy to the pulpits—now, there needs no railing,
At vanities, o'er head or foot, prevailing:
Declaiming saints would all their satire lose,
Who once preach'd laces, from the lady's shoes.
'Twould make the holiest, of those good men, stare,
To see my Lady buckled, like her mare,
And, free from mincing modesty, walk strong,
Jut frank, and elbow nervously along.
Give up ambition, for long sticks and straitness:
When conscious, none were gentry by creation,
Peers drive out pomp, and level all the nation;
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Tom and Sir Thomas, are the same, by nature.
Joy to the pulpits—now, there needs no railing,
At vanities, o'er head or foot, prevailing:
Declaiming saints would all their satire lose,
Who once preach'd laces, from the lady's shoes.
'Twould make the holiest, of those good men, stare,
To see my Lady buckled, like her mare,
And, free from mincing modesty, walk strong,
Jut frank, and elbow nervously along.
As to the Play I'd praise it, if I could;
But e'en the title proves, it can't be good:
A Cure for Jealousy!—'tis useless quite,
'Till charms grow strong, our passion to excite:
But guardian fashion, now, so models dress;
It cools desire and keeps down love's excess.
But e'en the title proves, it can't be good:
A Cure for Jealousy!—'tis useless quite,
'Till charms grow strong, our passion to excite:
But guardian fashion, now, so models dress;
It cools desire and keeps down love's excess.
| The Works of the Late Aaron Hill | |