 | Timoleon |  |
69
THE EPILOGUE,
As it was spoken by Mrs. OLDFIELD.
Well
, Sirs; who-e'er may take our Author's Part,
For Me—I own I hate him at my Heart.
What! shock the Ladies with his odious Rapes,
And draw the Virtuous into filthy Scrapes!
To such vile License, now, bold Bards are grown,
That Women scarce can call their own—their own!
For Me—I own I hate him at my Heart.
What! shock the Ladies with his odious Rapes,
And draw the Virtuous into filthy Scrapes!
To such vile License, now, bold Bards are grown,
That Women scarce can call their own—their own!
Well, poor Cleone had a rav'nous Lover,
A piteous Conflict; thank her Stars—'tis over.
Nay, frown not, Ladies; make the Case your own,
What cou'd she do?—Eh!—What wou'd you have done?
Not have consented, sure!—Ye Pow'rs forbid it!
No,—
As Mackbeth says—You cannot say she did it.
Yet, when from Friends remov'd, all Ears at Distance,
A strong Gallant, much Love, and no Assistance,
Who cou'd have blam'd the Doctrine then of Non-Resistance?
A piteous Conflict; thank her Stars—'tis over.
Nay, frown not, Ladies; make the Case your own,
What cou'd she do?—Eh!—What wou'd you have done?
Not have consented, sure!—Ye Pow'rs forbid it!
No,—
As Mackbeth says—You cannot say she did it.
Yet, when from Friends remov'd, all Ears at Distance,
A strong Gallant, much Love, and no Assistance,
Who cou'd have blam'd the Doctrine then of Non-Resistance?
Well, 'twas a sprightly Age, that same of Greece!
'Twere hard, if copying thence, shou'd fail to please;
A Ravisher, determin'd, makes a fine Distress.
Your jolly Greeks (as old Historians tell us)
Were ever held a Race of charming Fellows.
Their manly Passions knew t'enhance the Joy,
And sav'd Coquette's the Pain of being coy.
Say what we will, that Man's our Darling still,
Who bravely dares to please us—'gainst our Will.
But our tame Breed of Lovers does so dwindle,
Our Sparks with Shapes so small, and Legs so spindle,
Are forc'd to use all Helps to make their Passions kindle.
Poor callow Youths, just sent abroad from Weaning,
Are always blundring round about the Meaning.
They must have Balls, Assemblies, Masquerade,
To make their lazy Love a long laborious Trade.
Poor modish Ideots, to lose Time in Chat,
When each well knows what t'other would be at.
But hold—
Methinks this seems all foreign to the Play:
Why, as to that, I've only this to say;
Ladies, to you our Bard resigns his Cause,
His utmost Glory is your kind Applause.
Do you approve? then ev'ry Night appear,
And view your Likeness in Eunesia here.
'Twere hard, if copying thence, shou'd fail to please;
A Ravisher, determin'd, makes a fine Distress.
Your jolly Greeks (as old Historians tell us)
Were ever held a Race of charming Fellows.
70
And sav'd Coquette's the Pain of being coy.
Say what we will, that Man's our Darling still,
Who bravely dares to please us—'gainst our Will.
But our tame Breed of Lovers does so dwindle,
Our Sparks with Shapes so small, and Legs so spindle,
Are forc'd to use all Helps to make their Passions kindle.
Poor callow Youths, just sent abroad from Weaning,
Are always blundring round about the Meaning.
They must have Balls, Assemblies, Masquerade,
To make their lazy Love a long laborious Trade.
Poor modish Ideots, to lose Time in Chat,
When each well knows what t'other would be at.
But hold—
Methinks this seems all foreign to the Play:
Why, as to that, I've only this to say;
Ladies, to you our Bard resigns his Cause,
His utmost Glory is your kind Applause.
Do you approve? then ev'ry Night appear,
And view your Likeness in Eunesia here.
| Timoleon | |