The Works of the Late Aaron Hill ... In Four Volumes. Consisting of Letters on Various Subjects, And of Original Poems, Moral and Facetious. With An Essay on the Art of Acting |
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 | The Works of the Late Aaron Hill |  |
108
EPILOGUE, For a Friend, Spoke by Miss Robinson.
Little and light, myself like things in vogue;
You'd guess me fond, of a light Epilogue;
But you're mistaken—I've a taste, improving,
And fancy nothing but what's strong and moving:
You Ladies, too, spite of what criticks say,
Lean all your judgments the same natural way.
You'd guess me fond, of a light Epilogue;
But you're mistaken—I've a taste, improving,
And fancy nothing but what's strong and moving:
You Ladies, too, spite of what criticks say,
Lean all your judgments the same natural way.
When
Oratordos lull this tuneful nation,
Who is not mov'd to strong—commiseration?
When Harlequin jumps, nimbly, thro' the casement,
All the charm'd house is mov'd to wise amazement!
Then mark!—some well-writ Tragedy comes after;
And that ne'er fails to move—your general laughter.
Pleas'd, that we please—next, comedy, we play,
And, then, the whole town's mov'd—to keep away.
Who is not mov'd to strong—commiseration?
When Harlequin jumps, nimbly, thro' the casement,
All the charm'd house is mov'd to wise amazement!
Then mark!—some well-writ Tragedy comes after;
And that ne'er fails to move—your general laughter.
Pleas'd, that we please—next, comedy, we play,
And, then, the whole town's mov'd—to keep away.
109
'Twere endless, thus to tire your ears with proving;
—Not a toupee, but's either mov'd—or moving!
Gay belles are mov'd, to talk,—soft beaux, to stare,
Players, to fret—poor poets are mov'd, to swear!
And I, not last, in will, tho' least, in measure
Am, in my turn, too, mov'd—to wish you pleasure:
In fine, which way soe'er your taste may run ye,
Our Managers are mov'd—to get your money.
Move ne'er so strangely—I'll be short and pithy
We should move poorly—did not we move with ye.
—Not a toupee, but's either mov'd—or moving!
Gay belles are mov'd, to talk,—soft beaux, to stare,
Players, to fret—poor poets are mov'd, to swear!
And I, not last, in will, tho' least, in measure
Am, in my turn, too, mov'd—to wish you pleasure:
In fine, which way soe'er your taste may run ye,
Our Managers are mov'd—to get your money.
Move ne'er so strangely—I'll be short and pithy
We should move poorly—did not we move with ye.
| The Works of the Late Aaron Hill | |