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67
THE EPILOGUE,
As it was written by the Author.
Which
of ye all will take the Author's Part?
For me,—I vow, I hate him at my Heart.
To shock the Ladies with his filthy Rapes!
Lord!—how these Poets draw us into scrapes!
To such a Pitch of Insolence they're grown,
We Women scarce can call our—Souls our own.
For me,—I vow, I hate him at my Heart.
To shock the Ladies with his filthy Rapes!
Lord!—how these Poets draw us into scrapes!
To such a Pitch of Insolence they're grown,
We Women scarce can call our—Souls our own.
Well, poor Cleone had a desperate Lover,
'Twas a sad Conflict,—but, thank Heav'n! 'tis over.
Nay,—frown not, Ladies,—make the Case your own,
What could she do?—Eh!—What would you have done?
That she should e'er consent!—Ye Pow'rs forbid it!
No,—with Mackbeth,—you cannot say she did it.
Yet, when from Friends remov'd at such a Distance,
A strong Gallant, much Love, and no Assistance,
Faith! The best Doctrine then was Non-resistance.
'Twas a sad Conflict,—but, thank Heav'n! 'tis over.
Nay,—frown not, Ladies,—make the Case your own,
What could she do?—Eh!—What would you have done?
That she should e'er consent!—Ye Pow'rs forbid it!
No,—with Mackbeth,—you cannot say she did it.
Yet, when from Friends remov'd at such a Distance,
A strong Gallant, much Love, and no Assistance,
Faith! The best Doctrine then was Non-resistance.
Sure, 'twas a sprightly Age, that same of Greece!
Wisely from thence our Author drew his Piece;
A Rape must ever make a fine Distress.
Your little Greeks (as old Historians tell us,)
Were always held a Race of pushing Fellows.
A forward Lover much the Joy enhances,
And saves fond Girls the Trouble of Advances.
And that bold Man will be our Darling still,
Who dares to please us,—tho' against our Will.
Why then were Balls, Assemblies, Opera's made?
Where tends Quadrille? And where the Masquerade?
'Tis these make Love a long laborious Trade.
What needs such Ogling? and such idle Chat?
When each well knows what t'other would be at?
Wisely from thence our Author drew his Piece;
A Rape must ever make a fine Distress.
Your little Greeks (as old Historians tell us,)
Were always held a Race of pushing Fellows.
A forward Lover much the Joy enhances,
And saves fond Girls the Trouble of Advances.
68
Who dares to please us,—tho' against our Will.
Why then were Balls, Assemblies, Opera's made?
Where tends Quadrille? And where the Masquerade?
'Tis these make Love a long laborious Trade.
What needs such Ogling? and such idle Chat?
When each well knows what t'other would be at?
But thus it is in this frail Age of ours,
When Petit Maîtres undertake Amours:
Those callow Youths, just come abroad from Weaning,
Are always blund'ring round about the Meaning.
When Petit Maîtres undertake Amours:
Those callow Youths, just come abroad from Weaning,
Are always blund'ring round about the Meaning.
Stay,—let me look,—O! Here are none but Wits,
To such our Author readily submits.
To you, ye Fair, his Muse resigns her Cause,
Her utmost Glory is your kind Applause.
Do you approve? Then every Night appear,
And view your Picture in Eunesia here.
To such our Author readily submits.
To you, ye Fair, his Muse resigns her Cause,
Her utmost Glory is your kind Applause.
Do you approve? Then every Night appear,
And view your Picture in Eunesia here.
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