 | Athelstan |  |
EPILOGUE, Written by Mr. Garrick, Spoken by Mrs. Cibber.
To
speak Ten Words, again I've fetch'd my Breath;
The Tongue of Woman struggles hard with Death.
Ten Words! will that suffice? Ten Words—no more.
We always give a Thousand to the Score.
The Tongue of Woman struggles hard with Death.
Ten Words! will that suffice? Ten Words—no more.
We always give a Thousand to the Score.
What can provoke these Wits their Time to waste,
To please that fickle, fleeting Thing call'd Taste?
It mocks all Search, for Substance has it none;
Like Hamlet's Ghost—'Tis here—'Tis there—'Tis gone.
How very few about the Stage agree!
As Men with diff'rent Eyes a Beauty see,
So judge they of that stately Dame—Queen-Tragedy.
To please that fickle, fleeting Thing call'd Taste?
It mocks all Search, for Substance has it none;
Like Hamlet's Ghost—'Tis here—'Tis there—'Tis gone.
How very few about the Stage agree!
As Men with diff'rent Eyes a Beauty see,
So judge they of that stately Dame—Queen-Tragedy.
The Greek-read Critic, as his Mistress holds her,
And having little Love, for Trifles scolds her:
Excuses want of Spirit, Beauty, Grace,
But ne'er forgives her failing—Time, and Place.
How do our Sex of Taste in Judgment vary?
Miss Bell adores, what's loath'd by Lady Mary:
The first in Tenderness a very Dove,
Melts like the feather'd Snow, at Juliet's Love:
Then, sighing, turns to Romeo by her Side,
“Can you believe that Men for Love have dy'd?”
Her Ladyship, who vaults the Coarser's Back,
Leaps the barr'd Gate, and calls you Tom and Jack;
Detests these Whinings, like a true Virago;
She's all for Daggers! Blood! Blood! Blood! Iago!
A third, whose Heart defies all perturbations,
Yet dies for Triumphs, Funerals, Coronations!
Ne'er asks which Tragedies succeed, or fail,
But whose Procession has the longest Tail.
The Youths, to whom France gives a new Belief,
Who look with Horror on a Rump of Beef:
On Shakespear's Plays, with shrugg'd up Shoulders stare,
These Plays? They're bloody Murders,—O Barbare!
And yet the Man has Merit—Entre Nous,
He'd been damn'd clever, had he read Bossù.
Shakespear read French! roars out a surly Cit:
When Shakespear wrote, our Valour match'd our Wit:
Had Britons then been Fops, Queen Bess had hang'd 'em;
Those Days, they never read the French,—They bang'd 'em.
And having little Love, for Trifles scolds her:
Excuses want of Spirit, Beauty, Grace,
But ne'er forgives her failing—Time, and Place.
How do our Sex of Taste in Judgment vary?
Miss Bell adores, what's loath'd by Lady Mary:
The first in Tenderness a very Dove,
Melts like the feather'd Snow, at Juliet's Love:
Then, sighing, turns to Romeo by her Side,
“Can you believe that Men for Love have dy'd?”
Her Ladyship, who vaults the Coarser's Back,
Leaps the barr'd Gate, and calls you Tom and Jack;
Detests these Whinings, like a true Virago;
She's all for Daggers! Blood! Blood! Blood! Iago!
Yet dies for Triumphs, Funerals, Coronations!
Ne'er asks which Tragedies succeed, or fail,
But whose Procession has the longest Tail.
The Youths, to whom France gives a new Belief,
Who look with Horror on a Rump of Beef:
On Shakespear's Plays, with shrugg'd up Shoulders stare,
These Plays? They're bloody Murders,—O Barbare!
And yet the Man has Merit—Entre Nous,
He'd been damn'd clever, had he read Bossù.
Shakespear read French! roars out a surly Cit:
When Shakespear wrote, our Valour match'd our Wit:
Had Britons then been Fops, Queen Bess had hang'd 'em;
Those Days, they never read the French,—They bang'd 'em.
If Taste evaporates by too high Breeding,
And eke is overlaid, by too deep Reading;
Lest then in search of this, you lose your Feeling,
And barter native Sense in foreign Dealing;
Be this neglected Truth to Britons known,
No Tastes, no Modes become you, but your own.
And eke is overlaid, by too deep Reading;
Lest then in search of this, you lose your Feeling,
And barter native Sense in foreign Dealing;
Be this neglected Truth to Britons known,
No Tastes, no Modes become you, but your own.
FINIS.
| Athelstan | |