 | The poetical works of George Keate |  |
85
EPILOGUE TO THE Dramatic Romance of CYMON.
Spoken by Mrs. Abington, At the Theatre-Royal in Drury-Lane, 1767.
Enter, peeping in at the Stage-door.
Is the Stage clear?—bless me!—I've such a dread!
It seems enchanted ground where'er I tread! (coming forward.)
What Noise was that?—Hush!—'twas a false alarm;—
I'm sure there's no one here will do me harm:
Amongst you can't be found a single Knight,
Who would not do an injur'd Damsel right.—
Well,—Heav'n be prais'd, I'm out of Magic reach,
And have once more regain'd the pow'r of Speech:
Aye, and I'll use it—for it must appear
That my poor Tongue is greatly in arrear.—
There's not a Female here but shar'd my woe,
Ty'd down to Yes, or still more hateful No.
No, is expressive,—but I must confess,
If rightly question'd, I'd use only Yes.—
It seems enchanted ground where'er I tread! (coming forward.)
What Noise was that?—Hush!—'twas a false alarm;—
I'm sure there's no one here will do me harm:
Amongst you can't be found a single Knight,
Who would not do an injur'd Damsel right.—
86
And have once more regain'd the pow'r of Speech:
Aye, and I'll use it—for it must appear
That my poor Tongue is greatly in arrear.—
There's not a Female here but shar'd my woe,
Ty'd down to Yes, or still more hateful No.
No, is expressive,—but I must confess,
If rightly question'd, I'd use only Yes.—
In Merlin's walk this broken Wand I found,
Which to Two Words my speaking Organs bound.
Suppose upon the Town I try his spell,—
Ladies, don't stir!—you use your Tongues too well!
How tranquil ev'ry Place, when by my skill,
Folly is mute, and even Slander still!
Old Gossips speechless—Bloods would breed no Riot,
And all the Tongues at Jonathan's lie quiet!
Each grave Profession must new-bush the wig,
Nothing to say, 'twere needful they look big!
The Reverend
Doctor might the Change endure,
He would sit still, and have his Sinecure!
Nor could Great Folks much hardship undergo,
They do their Bus'ness with an Aye, or No!—
But come, I only jok'd—Dismiss your Fear;
Tho' I've the Pow'r, I will not use it here.
I'll only keep my Magic as a Guard,
To awe each Critic who attacks our Bard.
I see some Malcontents their fingers biting,
Snarling, “the Ancients never knew such writing;—
“The Drama's lost!—The Managers exhaust us
“With Op'ras, Monkies, Mab, and Dr. Faustus!”—
Dread Sirs, a word,—the Public Taste is fickle,
All palates in their turn we strive to tickle;
Our Cat'rers vary, and you'll own at least,
It is Variety that makes the Feast.
If this fair Circle smile, and the Gods thunder,
I with this Wand will keep the Critics under.
Which to Two Words my speaking Organs bound.
Suppose upon the Town I try his spell,—
Ladies, don't stir!—you use your Tongues too well!
How tranquil ev'ry Place, when by my skill,
Folly is mute, and even Slander still!
Old Gossips speechless—Bloods would breed no Riot,
And all the Tongues at Jonathan's lie quiet!
Each grave Profession must new-bush the wig,
Nothing to say, 'twere needful they look big!
87
He would sit still, and have his Sinecure!
Nor could Great Folks much hardship undergo,
They do their Bus'ness with an Aye, or No!—
But come, I only jok'd—Dismiss your Fear;
Tho' I've the Pow'r, I will not use it here.
I'll only keep my Magic as a Guard,
To awe each Critic who attacks our Bard.
I see some Malcontents their fingers biting,
Snarling, “the Ancients never knew such writing;—
“The Drama's lost!—The Managers exhaust us
“With Op'ras, Monkies, Mab, and Dr. Faustus!”—
Dread Sirs, a word,—the Public Taste is fickle,
All palates in their turn we strive to tickle;
Our Cat'rers vary, and you'll own at least,
It is Variety that makes the Feast.
If this fair Circle smile, and the Gods thunder,
I with this Wand will keep the Critics under.
| The poetical works of George Keate | |