 | The Jew of Venice |  |
47
EPILOGUE.
Each
in his turn, the Poet and the Priest,
Have view'd the Stage; but like false Prophets guess'd:
The Man of Zeal in his Religious Rage
Would silence Poets, and reduce the Stage.
The Poet rashly, to get clear, retorts
On Kings the Scandal, and bespatters Courts.
Both err'; for without mincing, to be plain,
The Guilt is yours of every Odious Scene.
The present time still gives the Stage its Mode,
The Vices which you practice, we explode:
We hold the Glass, and but reflect your Shame,
Like Spartans, by exposing, to reclaim.
The Scribler, pinch'd with Hunger, writes to Dine,
And to your Genius must conform his Line;
Not lewd by Choice, but meerly to submit;
Would you encourage Sense, Sense would be writ.
Have view'd the Stage; but like false Prophets guess'd:
The Man of Zeal in his Religious Rage
Would silence Poets, and reduce the Stage.
The Poet rashly, to get clear, retorts
On Kings the Scandal, and bespatters Courts.
Both err'; for without mincing, to be plain,
The Guilt is yours of every Odious Scene.
The present time still gives the Stage its Mode,
The Vices which you practice, we explode:
We hold the Glass, and but reflect your Shame,
Like Spartans, by exposing, to reclaim.
The Scribler, pinch'd with Hunger, writes to Dine,
And to your Genius must conform his Line;
Not lewd by Choice, but meerly to submit;
Would you encourage Sense, Sense would be writ.
Plain Beauties pleas'd your Sires an Age ago,
Without the Varnish and the Dawb of Show.
At vast Expence we labour to our Ruine,
And court your Favour with our own undoing.
A War of Profit mitigates the Evil,
But to be tax'd and beaten, is the Devil.
How was the Scene forlorn, and how despis'd,
When Tymon, without Musick, moraliz'd?
Shakespears sublime in vain entic'd the Throng,
Without the Charm of Purcel's Syren Song.
In the same Antique Loom these Scenes were wrought,
Without the Varnish and the Dawb of Show.
At vast Expence we labour to our Ruine,
And court your Favour with our own undoing.
A War of Profit mitigates the Evil,
But to be tax'd and beaten, is the Devil.
How was the Scene forlorn, and how despis'd,
When Tymon, without Musick, moraliz'd?
Shakespears sublime in vain entic'd the Throng,
Without the Charm of Purcel's Syren Song.
Embelish'd with good Morals and just Thought:
True Nature in her Noblest Light you see,
E're yet debauch'd by modern Gallantry,
To trifling Jest, and fulsom Ribaldry.
What Rust remains upon the shining Mass
Antiquity may privilege to pass.
'Tis Shakespear's Play, and if these Scenes miscarry,
Let Gormon take the Stage—or Lady Mary.
FINIS.
| The Jew of Venice | |