 | Irene |  |
EPILOGUE.
Marry
a Turk! a haughty, Tyrant King,
Who thinks us Women born to dress and sing
To please his Fancy,—see no other Man—
Let him persuade me to it—if he can:
Besides, he has fifty Wives; and who can bear
To have the fiftieth Part her paultry Share?
Who thinks us Women born to dress and sing
To please his Fancy,—see no other Man—
Let him persuade me to it—if he can:
Besides, he has fifty Wives; and who can bear
To have the fiftieth Part her paultry Share?
'Tis true, the Fellow's handsome, strait and tall;
But how the Devil should he please us all!
My Swain is little—true—but be it known,
My Pride's to have that little all my own.
Men will be ever to their Errors blind,
Where Woman's not allow'd to speak her Mind;
I swear this Eastern Pageantry is Nonsense,
And for one Man—one Wife's enough in Conscience.
But how the Devil should he please us all!
My Swain is little—true—but be it known,
My Pride's to have that little all my own.
Men will be ever to their Errors blind,
Where Woman's not allow'd to speak her Mind;
I swear this Eastern Pageantry is Nonsense,
And for one Man—one Wife's enough in Conscience.
In vain proud Man usurps what's Woman's Due;
For us alone, they Honour's Paths pursue:
Inspir'd by us, they Glory's Heights ascend;
Woman the Source, the Object, and the End.
Tho' Wealth, and Pow'r, and Glory they receive,
These all are Trifles, to what we can give.
For us the Statesman labours, Hero fights,
Bears toilsome Days, and wakes long tedious Nights:
And when blest Peace has silenc'd War's Alarms,
Receives his full Reward in Beauty's Arms.
For us alone, they Honour's Paths pursue:
Inspir'd by us, they Glory's Heights ascend;
Woman the Source, the Object, and the End.
Tho' Wealth, and Pow'r, and Glory they receive,
These all are Trifles, to what we can give.
For us the Statesman labours, Hero fights,
Bears toilsome Days, and wakes long tedious Nights:
And when blest Peace has silenc'd War's Alarms,
Receives his full Reward in Beauty's Arms.
| Irene | |