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EPILOGUE.

377

EPILOGUE.

By an unknown Hand.
Spoken by Mrs. Buchanan.
As a young Virgin, on her wedding-night,
Wishes, yet fears to try the dear delight:
Hope and mistrust rule her torn breast by turns,
And while she chills with fears, with hope she burns.
Desire, impatience, fears, and wishes vie;
And for the mastery all her passions try.
Such is the state our Poet's breast is in,
Now he, too late, repents him of his sin.
In ev'ry Critic's bridegroom face he spies
An eager haste to seize upon the prize.
Critics and Poets long, like Man and Wife,
Have led a snarling fashionable life.
They never meet, but quarrels, noise, and pother,
Disturb the house, while one berogues the other.
Indeed, friend Critics, you begin too soon;
You rate and damn them in their honey-moon:
'Tis you are most to blame. Upon my life
You treat a Bride as you would treat a Wife.
True English Boobies, resolute you sit here;
Tho' ne'er so good, spouse shall not get the better.
The Fair to gain, soft methods you should use;
Begin like Lovers, gently treat the Muse;
Her sweetest treasures she will ne'er refuse.

378

Her coyness dally with, indulge her shame;
You'll not extinguish, but preserve her flame.
Sparks, you may credit an experienc'd Wife;
Win her by softness, and she'll please for life.