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EPILOGUE. Spoken by Mrs. BOOTH.
This
whining Tragedy has made me hoarse,
Yet, as an Epilogue's a Thing of course,
I can't help telling ye, before we part,
I'm glad my Husband's dead, with all my Heart:
That's one Confession,—and one more shall be,
I wish the Author were as dead as he:
His murdering Muse, in downright Love of teizing,
Kills one, for being pleas'd, and one, for pleasing:
Stabs Ethy—'cause her Love was an untrue one,
Drowns my good Man, because he lik'd a new one:
Lud! Lud!—what Work 'twou'd make among the Fair;
Shou'd every Belle be drown'd, that loves a Pair:
And, as for Beaux,—who make no Bones of erring,
They'd fill the Seas, all round, like Shoals of Herring!
Yet, as an Epilogue's a Thing of course,
I can't help telling ye, before we part,
I'm glad my Husband's dead, with all my Heart:
That's one Confession,—and one more shall be,
I wish the Author were as dead as he:
His murdering Muse, in downright Love of teizing,
Kills one, for being pleas'd, and one, for pleasing:
Stabs Ethy—'cause her Love was an untrue one,
Drowns my good Man, because he lik'd a new one:
Lud! Lud!—what Work 'twou'd make among the Fair;
Shou'd every Belle be drown'd, that loves a Pair:
And, as for Beaux,—who make no Bones of erring,
They'd fill the Seas, all round, like Shoals of Herring!
A fine Example, truly! don't it move ye?
Were it well follow'd—how 'twou'd soon improve ye!
Send ye, in Pairs, to Heav'n, where good Folks Trust is,
Martyrs, Lord help ye! of Poetic Justice!
Were it well follow'd—how 'twou'd soon improve ye!
Send ye, in Pairs, to Heav'n, where good Folks Trust is,
Martyrs, Lord help ye! of Poetic Justice!
I, for my Part, had a sweet Race to run,
I,—not to be a Queen;—must be a—Nun!
No, Ladies, have a care of that:—The Poet
Belies the Story,—and, thank Heaven! I know it:—
Elfrid was wiser, and the King was kinder;
Even, in the Convent, he knew how to find her:
He, pious Prince! lov'd Penitence so well,
That, oft, he trac'd it to the loneliest Cell;
Confess'd the Saints Himself—bless'd Occupation!
Freely bestow'd his Princely Consolation;
And eas'd the Father Girards of the Nation.
I,—not to be a Queen;—must be a—Nun!
No, Ladies, have a care of that:—The Poet
Belies the Story,—and, thank Heaven! I know it:—
Elfrid was wiser, and the King was kinder;
Even, in the Convent, he knew how to find her:
He, pious Prince! lov'd Penitence so well,
That, oft, he trac'd it to the loneliest Cell;
Confess'd the Saints Himself—bless'd Occupation!
Freely bestow'd his Princely Consolation;
And eas'd the Father Girards of the Nation.
Nay, tis no laughing Matter—I am serious,
I meant no Mischief, I:—no Hint mysterious!
Ask Hollinshead;—He'll tell ye, if tis new t'ye,
That Edgar was a Lyon—at Church Duty.
I meant no Mischief, I:—no Hint mysterious!
Ask Hollinshead;—He'll tell ye, if tis new t'ye,
That Edgar was a Lyon—at Church Duty.
One of His Virtues needs must Envy raise,
He was the veriest Patriot, of His Days!
He, not to Maids, alone, thought Pity due,
His will, unwearied, work'd for Husbands, too.
Dependent Princes sent their Wives, by th'Dozen,
To tax This Bounty of their Royal Cozen!
And Eight dubb'd Monarchs, of his own Creation,
Row'd him, in grateful Triumph, round the Nation.
He was the veriest Patriot, of His Days!
He, not to Maids, alone, thought Pity due,
His will, unwearied, work'd for Husbands, too.
Dependent Princes sent their Wives, by th'Dozen,
To tax This Bounty of their Royal Cozen!
And Eight dubb'd Monarchs, of his own Creation,
Row'd him, in grateful Triumph, round the Nation.
This being so—what does our Author Merit,
Who wrongs a Prince—of such a Publick Spirit!
Hang him, dull Poet!—I'll say nothing for him,
In good King Edgar's Quarrel, I abhor him:—
Take him among ye,—and, if e're you'd mend him,
To some kind Jesuit, for new Notions, send him.
Who wrongs a Prince—of such a Publick Spirit!
Hang him, dull Poet!—I'll say nothing for him,
In good King Edgar's Quarrel, I abhor him:—
Take him among ye,—and, if e're you'd mend him,
To some kind Jesuit, for new Notions, send him.
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