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109
EPILOGUE
(BY A FRIEND.)SPOKEN BY MISS FOOTE.
Ladies!—Excuse me that I live—but I
Implored the Poet not to let me die;
An author's fate, I urged, would do as well,—
To be alive, and but insensible.
Implored the Poet not to let me die;
An author's fate, I urged, would do as well,—
To be alive, and but insensible.
No Epilogue is written, so you may guess
The Poet's and the Manager's distress:—
I've seen much mingled fury and despair,
Stamping of feet, and tearing of the hair,
Lines penn'd and blotted out,—old verses read
To see what earlier Epilogues have said:
But not a couplet could their favour win,—
The deepest Tragedy is there,—within.
I, by the Manager's entreaty press'd,
Come to implore your hearts for the distrest.
It is not very willingly I do't,
But Mr. Fawcett says, “They'll hear Miss Foote!”
The Poet's and the Manager's distress:—
I've seen much mingled fury and despair,
Stamping of feet, and tearing of the hair,
Lines penn'd and blotted out,—old verses read
To see what earlier Epilogues have said:
But not a couplet could their favour win,—
The deepest Tragedy is there,—within.
I, by the Manager's entreaty press'd,
Come to implore your hearts for the distrest.
It is not very willingly I do't,
But Mr. Fawcett says, “They'll hear Miss Foote!”
And will you hear her?—You have thought perchance
She scarce should speak after so deep a trance;—
But women love last words—the best of all.
Faintness and speech are not unnatural,—
Meek Desdemona, as I've heard and read,
(True woman!) “spake, after long seeming dead!”
Then may not I throw off my death-like grief,
And talk a little,—merely for relief?
She scarce should speak after so deep a trance;—
But women love last words—the best of all.
Faintness and speech are not unnatural,—
110
(True woman!) “spake, after long seeming dead!”
Then may not I throw off my death-like grief,
And talk a little,—merely for relief?
How like you this our play?—be candid—come—
Say, is the Tragic Muse at all at home?—
'Tis said large Theatres the Drama mar,—
At least some little ones keep up this war;
But oh! I love the wondrous scene,—the dress,—
The state, that lends to sorrow, mightiness.
Give me to see ennobled Tragedy
In proud magnificence go sweeping by—
Her royal beauty deepen'd—and her grace
Made awful by fit circumstance and place!
No niggard stage becomes her gorgeous gloom;
Her soul, as King John says, wants elbow room.
Say, is the Tragic Muse at all at home?—
'Tis said large Theatres the Drama mar,—
At least some little ones keep up this war;
But oh! I love the wondrous scene,—the dress,—
The state, that lends to sorrow, mightiness.
Give me to see ennobled Tragedy
In proud magnificence go sweeping by—
Her royal beauty deepen'd—and her grace
Made awful by fit circumstance and place!
No niggard stage becomes her gorgeous gloom;
Her soul, as King John says, wants elbow room.
But I forget my duty to the play,
And custom disregard;—what shall I say?—
Let me recal to mind some sterling rhyme
Of an “approved good master” of his time—
“When Learning's triumphs o'er her barbarous foes
“First rear'd the stage”—a plague on't—I must close
This sombre task. I really cannot speak
The Epilogue—I'll learn one by next week.
And custom disregard;—what shall I say?—
Let me recal to mind some sterling rhyme
Of an “approved good master” of his time—
“When Learning's triumphs o'er her barbarous foes
“First rear'd the stage”—a plague on't—I must close
This sombre task. I really cannot speak
The Epilogue—I'll learn one by next week.
In the meantime, kind friends, allow our play
To live without it till another day.
To live without it till another day.
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