The works of Mr. Thomas Brown Serious and Comical, In Prose and Verse; In four volumes. The Fourth Edition, Corrected, and much Enlarged from his Originals never before publish'd. With a key to all his Writings |
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The EPILOGUE.
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 | The works of Mr. Thomas Brown |  |
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The EPILOGUE.
As from a darken'd Room, some Optick Glass
Transmits the distant Species as they pass;
The World's large Landskip is from far descry'd,
And Men contracted on the Paper glide.
Transmits the distant Species as they pass;
The World's large Landskip is from far descry'd,
And Men contracted on the Paper glide.
Thus crowded Oxford repesents Mankind,
And in these Walls Great-Britain seems confin'd.
Oxford is now the publick Theatre,
And you both Audience and Actors are:
The gazing World on the new Scene attend,
Admire the Turns, and wish a prosp'rous End.
Oxford, the Seat of Peace, the quiet Cell,
Where Arts, remov'd from noisy Business, dwell;
Should calm your Minds, unite the jarring Parts,
And with a kind Contagion seize your Hearts.
O! may its Genius like soft Musick move,
And tune you all to Concord and to Love.
Our Acts which has in Tempest long been tost,
Could never rest on so secure a Coast.
From hence you may look back on civil Rage,
And view the Ruins of the former Age.
Here a new World its Glories may unfold,
And here be sav'd the Remnant of the old:
But while our Thoughts on publick Cares are bent,
Past Ills to heal, and future to prevent,
Some vacant Hours allow to your Delight;
Mirth is the pleasing Bus'ness of the Night,
The King's Prerogative, the Subject's Right.
Were all your Hearts to sullen Cares confin'd,
The Body would be weary'd by the Mind.
'Tis Wisdom's part, betwixt Extreams to steer,
Be Gods in Senate, but be Mortals here.
And in these Walls Great-Britain seems confin'd.
Oxford is now the publick Theatre,
And you both Audience and Actors are:
The gazing World on the new Scene attend,
Admire the Turns, and wish a prosp'rous End.
Oxford, the Seat of Peace, the quiet Cell,
Where Arts, remov'd from noisy Business, dwell;
Should calm your Minds, unite the jarring Parts,
And with a kind Contagion seize your Hearts.
O! may its Genius like soft Musick move,
And tune you all to Concord and to Love.
Our Acts which has in Tempest long been tost,
Could never rest on so secure a Coast.
From hence you may look back on civil Rage,
And view the Ruins of the former Age.
Here a new World its Glories may unfold,
And here be sav'd the Remnant of the old:
But while our Thoughts on publick Cares are bent,
Past Ills to heal, and future to prevent,
Some vacant Hours allow to your Delight;
Mirth is the pleasing Bus'ness of the Night,
The King's Prerogative, the Subject's Right.
Were all your Hearts to sullen Cares confin'd,
The Body would be weary'd by the Mind.
'Tis Wisdom's part, betwixt Extreams to steer,
Be Gods in Senate, but be Mortals here.
| The works of Mr. Thomas Brown | |