 | Busiris, King of Egypt |  |
EPILOGUE, By a Friend. Spoken by Mrs. OLDFIELD.
The
Race of Criticks, dull judicious Rogues,
To Mournful Plays deny Brisk Epilogues.
Each gentle Swain and tender Nymph, say they,
From a sad Tale should go in Tears away,
From hence quite home should Streams of Sorrow shed,
And drown'd in Grief steal supperless to Bed.
To Mournful Plays deny Brisk Epilogues.
Each gentle Swain and tender Nymph, say they,
From a sad Tale should go in Tears away,
From hence quite home should Streams of Sorrow shed,
And drown'd in Grief steal supperless to Bed.
This Doctrine is so grave, the Sparks won't bear it;
They love to go in Humour to their Claret.
The Citt, who owns a little Fun worth buying,
Holds Half-a-Crown too much to pay for Crying.
Besides, who knows without these healing Arts,
But Love might turn your Heads, and break your Hearts;
And the poor Author, by imagin'd Woes,
Might people Bedlam with our Belles and Beaux?
They love to go in Humour to their Claret.
The Citt, who owns a little Fun worth buying,
Holds Half-a-Crown too much to pay for Crying.
Besides, who knows without these healing Arts,
But Love might turn your Heads, and break your Hearts;
And the poor Author, by imagin'd Woes,
Might people Bedlam with our Belles and Beaux?
Hence I, who lately bid Adieu to Pleasure,
Robb'd of my Spouse, and my dear Virgin Treasure;
I, whom you saw despairing breathe my last,
Am free and easy, as if nought had past;
Again put on my Airs, and play my Fan,
And fear no more that dreadful Creature, Man.
—But whence does this malicious Mirth begin?—
I know, ye Beasts, you reckon it no Sin.
Robb'd of my Spouse, and my dear Virgin Treasure;
I, whom you saw despairing breathe my last,
Am free and easy, as if nought had past;
Again put on my Airs, and play my Fan,
And fear no more that dreadful Creature, Man.
—But whence does this malicious Mirth begin?—
I know, ye Beasts, you reckon it no Sin.
'Tis strange that Crimes the same, in diff'rent Plays,
Should move our Horror, and our Laughter raise.
Love's Joy secure the Comick Actor tryes,
But if he's wicked in Blank Verse, he Dyes.
The Farce, where Wives prove frail, still takes the best,
And the poor Cuckold is a standing Jest:
But our grave Bard, a virtuous Son of Isis,
Counts a bold Stroke in Love among the Vices,
In Blood and Wounds a guilty Land he dips ye,
And wastes an Empire for one ravish'd Gypsie.
Should move our Horror, and our Laughter raise.
Love's Joy secure the Comick Actor tryes,
But if he's wicked in Blank Verse, he Dyes.
The Farce, where Wives prove frail, still takes the best,
And the poor Cuckold is a standing Jest:
But our grave Bard, a virtuous Son of Isis,
Counts a bold Stroke in Love among the Vices,
In Blood and Wounds a guilty Land he dips ye,
And wastes an Empire for one ravish'd Gypsie.
What musty Morals fill an Oxford Head,
To Notions of pedantick Virtue bred!
There each stiff Don at Gallantry exclaims,
And calls fine Men and Ladies filthy Names;
They tell you Rakes and Jilts corrupt a Nation:
—Such is the Prejudice of Education!
You, who know better Things, will sure approve
To Notions of pedantick Virtue bred!
There each stiff Don at Gallantry exclaims,
And calls fine Men and Ladies filthy Names;
They tell you Rakes and Jilts corrupt a Nation:
—Such is the Prejudice of Education!
These Scenes, that show the boundless Power of Love.
Let, when they will, th'Italian Things appear,
This Play, we trust, shall throng an Audience here.
Bold Myron's Passion, up to Frensy wrought,
Would ill be warbled through an Eunuch's Throat:
His Part, at least, his Part requires a Man;
Let Nicolini act it if he can.
FINIS.
| Busiris, King of Egypt | |