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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EPILOGUE, for a Friend.
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 | The Works of the Late Aaron Hill |  |
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EPILOGUE, for a Friend.
Of all the tricks, these Poets bring in vogue,
Methinks, their strangest whim, is Epilogue:
Hard task, on us, poor damsels of the stage!
A Bard's long, tiresome, bauble, fires your rage;
And, when that rage inflames you, to abhor him,
He pops in one of us, to cool you, for him.
Methinks, their strangest whim, is Epilogue:
Hard task, on us, poor damsels of the stage!
A Bard's long, tiresome, bauble, fires your rage;
And, when that rage inflames you, to abhor him,
He pops in one of us, to cool you, for him.
'Tis an ungentle treatment, to perplex,
With strongest danger, thus, the weakest sex;
Troth, one wou'd think—but custom's hard to stem,
That they shou'd do for us—not we for them!
At least, since each was made, to join with either,
In downright conscience, both shou'd move, together.
But, be it so!—I care not, tho' I venture,
Cou'd I but see, on what soft side to enter:
Grave Gentlemen!—some, of you, look so sadly,
That, troth! I fear—I shall come off but badly.
Yet, hang it, I'm engag'd—th' event I'll try,
And, if I'm doom'd to fall—why there I lie.
With strongest danger, thus, the weakest sex;
Troth, one wou'd think—but custom's hard to stem,
That they shou'd do for us—not we for them!
At least, since each was made, to join with either,
In downright conscience, both shou'd move, together.
But, be it so!—I care not, tho' I venture,
Cou'd I but see, on what soft side to enter:
Grave Gentlemen!—some, of you, look so sadly,
That, troth! I fear—I shall come off but badly.
Yet, hang it, I'm engag'd—th' event I'll try,
And, if I'm doom'd to fall—why there I lie.
For our new Author, then, and for his Play,
I have one vast, important truth to say:
Smile, on his hopes, do—for my sake, forbear him,
Not, that my wishes bid your Justice spare him:
But shou'd you not—you will but make me trouble!
He'll write, till you approve, and plague me, double.
I have one vast, important truth to say:
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Not, that my wishes bid your Justice spare him:
But shou'd you not—you will but make me trouble!
He'll write, till you approve, and plague me, double.
| The Works of the Late Aaron Hill | |