The Spartan Dame A Tragedy |
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EPILOGUE, WRITTEN BY Major Richardson Pack.
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 | The Spartan Dame |  |
EPILOGUE, WRITTEN BY Major Richardson Pack.
Our
Author's Muse a num'rous Issue boasts,
And many of the Daughters have been Toasts.
She who now last appears upon the Stage,
(The Hopes and Joy of his declining Age)
With modest Fears, a cens'ring World to shun,
Retir'd awhile, and liv'd conceal'd a Nun:
At length, releas'd from that Restraint, the Dame
Trusts to the Town her Fortune, and her Fame.
Absence, and Time, have lost her many Friends,
But this bright Circle makes her large Amends.
To You, Fair Judges, she submits her Cause;
Nor doubts, if You approve, the Mens Applause.
Some sullen formal Rogue perhaps may lour,
(Rebel to Female, as to Royal Pow'r)
But all the Gay, the Gallant, and the Great,
On Beauty's Standard with Ambition wait.
Glory is vain, where Love has had no Part:
The Post of Honour is a Woman's Heart.
Ev'n Chains are Ornaments, that You bestow;
The more your Slaves, the prouder still We grow.
Man, a rough Creature, savage-form'd and rude,
By You to gentler Manners is subdu'd:
In the sweet Habitude we grow refin'd,
And polish Strength with Elegance of Mind.
Our Sex may represent the bolder Pow'rs;
The Graces, Muses, and the Virtues, Yours.
But ah! 'tis Pity, that for want of Care,
And many of the Daughters have been Toasts.
She who now last appears upon the Stage,
(The Hopes and Joy of his declining Age)
With modest Fears, a cens'ring World to shun,
Retir'd awhile, and liv'd conceal'd a Nun:
At length, releas'd from that Restraint, the Dame
Trusts to the Town her Fortune, and her Fame.
Absence, and Time, have lost her many Friends,
But this bright Circle makes her large Amends.
To You, Fair Judges, she submits her Cause;
Nor doubts, if You approve, the Mens Applause.
Some sullen formal Rogue perhaps may lour,
(Rebel to Female, as to Royal Pow'r)
But all the Gay, the Gallant, and the Great,
On Beauty's Standard with Ambition wait.
Glory is vain, where Love has had no Part:
The Post of Honour is a Woman's Heart.
Ev'n Chains are Ornaments, that You bestow;
The more your Slaves, the prouder still We grow.
Man, a rough Creature, savage-form'd and rude,
By You to gentler Manners is subdu'd:
And polish Strength with Elegance of Mind.
Our Sex may represent the bolder Pow'rs;
The Graces, Muses, and the Virtues, Yours.
Madmen and Fops your Bounty sometimes share,
Wretches in Wit's Despight and Nature's born,
Beneath your Favour, nay, below your Scorn.
May poor Celona's Wrongs a Warning prove,
And teach the Fair with Dignity to Love.
Let Wealth ne'er tempt you to abandon Sense;
Nor Knaves seduce you with their grave Pretence.
Be vile Profaneness ever in Disgrace;
And Vice abhor'd, as Treacherous, and Base.
Revere Yourselves; and, Conscious of your Charms,
Receive no Dæmon to an Angel's Arms.
Success can then alone your Vows attend,
When Worth's the Motive, Constancy the End.
| The Spartan Dame | |