Eurydice A Tragedy |
EPILOGUE. Written by Aaron Hill Esq; Spoken by Miss Robinson, in boys clothes; tripping in hastily. |
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 | Eurydice |  |
EPILOGUE. Written by Aaron Hill Esq; Spoken by Miss Robinson, in boys clothes; tripping in hastily.
Oh
! Gentlemen!—I'm come—but was not sent ye:
A voluntier—Pray does my size content ye?
Man, I am yours—Sex!—bless'd, as heaven can make ye,
And from this time, weak Woman! I forsake ye.
A voluntier—Pray does my size content ye?
Man, I am yours—Sex!—bless'd, as heaven can make ye,
And from this time, weak Woman! I forsake ye.
Who'd be a wife? when each new Play can teach us,
To what fine ends these Lords of ours beseech us?
At first, whate'er they do, they do—so charming!
But mark what follows; frightful! and alarming!
They feed too fast on Love; then sick'ning tell us,
They can't, forsooth, be kind—because they're jealous.
To what fine ends these Lords of ours beseech us?
At first, whate'er they do, they do—so charming!
But mark what follows; frightful! and alarming!
They feed too fast on Love; then sick'ning tell us,
They can't, forsooth, be kind—because they're jealous.
Who wou'd be woman, then? to sigh—and suffer,
And wish—and wait—for the slow-coming proffer!
Not I—farewel to petticoats, and stitching,
And welcome dear, dear, breeches! more bewitching.
Henceforth, new-moulded, I'll rove, love, and wander,
And fight, and storm—and charm—like Periander.
Born for this dapper age; pert, short, and clever;
If e'er I grow a Man—'tis now, or never.
And wish—and wait—for the slow-coming proffer!
Not I—farewel to petticoats, and stitching,
And welcome dear, dear, breeches! more bewitching.
Henceforth, new-moulded, I'll rove, love, and wander,
And fight, and storm—and charm—like Periander.
Born for this dapper age; pert, short, and clever;
If e'er I grow a Man—'tis now, or never.
Well! but what conduct suits this transformation?
I'll copy some smart soul of conversation.
Shou'd there be war, I'd talk of fields and trenches;
Shou'd there be peace—I'd toast ten favourite wenches!
Shou'd I be lov'd—Gadso! how then?—no matter,
I'll bow, as you do—and look foolish at her.
And so, who knows, that never means to prove ye,
But I'm as good a Man, as any of ye!
I'll copy some smart soul of conversation.
Shou'd there be war, I'd talk of fields and trenches;
Shou'd there be peace—I'd toast ten favourite wenches!
Shou'd I be lov'd—Gadso! how then?—no matter,
I'll bow, as you do—and look foolish at her.
And so, who knows, that never means to prove ye,
But I'm as good a Man, as any of ye!
Well! 'tis a charming frolick—and I'll do't:
Sirs!—have I your consent?—What say ye to't?
Yet hold—Perhaps they'll dread a rival beau:
I may be what I seem, for aught they know.
Ladies! farewel—I shou'd be loth to leave ye,
Cou'd an increase of pretty fellows grieve ye:
Each, like myself, devoted, ne'er to harm ye,
And full as fit, no doubt, to serve and charm ye.
Sirs!—have I your consent?—What say ye to't?
Yet hold—Perhaps they'll dread a rival beau:
I may be what I seem, for aught they know.
Ladies! farewel—I shou'd be loth to leave ye,
Cou'd an increase of pretty fellows grieve ye:
Each, like myself, devoted, ne'er to harm ye,
And full as fit, no doubt, to serve and charm ye.
| Eurydice | |