 | The Fatal Falsehood |  |
EPILOGUE.
Writen by R. B. Sheridan, Esq; and spoken by Mr. Lee Lewes.
Unhand
me, gentlemen, by Heaven, I say,
I'll make a ghost of him who bars my way.
[Behind the scenes.
I'll make a ghost of him who bars my way.
Forth let me come—A Poetaster true,
As lean as Envy, and as baneful too;
On the dull audience let me vent my rage,
Or drive these female scribblers from the stage:
For scene or history, we've none but these,
The law of Liberty and Wit they seize
In Tragic—Comic—Pastoral—they dare to please.
Each puny Bard must surely burst with spite,
To find that women with such fame can write:
But, oh, your partial favour is the cause,
Who feed their follies with such full applause;
Yet still our tribe shall seek to blast their fame,
And ridicule each fair pretender's aim;
Where the dull duties of domestic life,
Wage with the Muse's toils eternal strife.
As lean as Envy, and as baneful too;
On the dull audience let me vent my rage,
Or drive these female scribblers from the stage:
For scene or history, we've none but these,
The law of Liberty and Wit they seize
In Tragic—Comic—Pastoral—they dare to please.
Each puny Bard must surely burst with spite,
To find that women with such fame can write:
But, oh, your partial favour is the cause,
Who feed their follies with such full applause;
Yet still our tribe shall seek to blast their fame,
And ridicule each fair pretender's aim;
Where the dull duties of domestic life,
Wage with the Muse's toils eternal strife.
What motley cares Corilla's mind perplex,
While maids and metaphors conspire to vex!
In studious deshabille behold her sit,
A letter'd gossip, and a housewife wit;
At once invoking, though for different views,
Her gods, her cook, her millener, and muse,
Round her strew'd room, a frippery chaos lies,
A chequer'd wreck of notable and wise;
Bills, Books, Caps, Couplets, Combs, a vary'd mass,
Oppress the toilet, and obscure the glass;
Unfinish'd here an Epigram is laid,
And there, a mantua-maker's Bill unpaid;
Here new-born Plays fore taste the town's applause,
There, dormant Patterns pine for future gauze;
Amoral Essay now is all her care,
A Satire next, and then a Bill of Fare:
A Scene she now projects, and now a Dish,
Here's Act the First—and here—remove with Fish.
Now while this Eye in a fine phrenzy rolls,
That, soberly casts up a Bill for Coals;
Black Pins and Daggers in one leaf she sticks,
And Tears and Thread, and Balls and Thimbles mix.
While maids and metaphors conspire to vex!
In studious deshabille behold her sit,
A letter'd gossip, and a housewife wit;
At once invoking, though for different views,
Her gods, her cook, her millener, and muse,
Round her strew'd room, a frippery chaos lies,
A chequer'd wreck of notable and wise;
Bills, Books, Caps, Couplets, Combs, a vary'd mass,
Oppress the toilet, and obscure the glass;
Unfinish'd here an Epigram is laid,
And there, a mantua-maker's Bill unpaid;
Here new-born Plays fore taste the town's applause,
There, dormant Patterns pine for future gauze;
A Satire next, and then a Bill of Fare:
A Scene she now projects, and now a Dish,
Here's Act the First—and here—remove with Fish.
Now while this Eye in a fine phrenzy rolls,
That, soberly casts up a Bill for Coals;
Black Pins and Daggers in one leaf she sticks,
And Tears and Thread, and Balls and Thimbles mix.
Sappho, 'tis true, long vers'd in epic song,
For years esteem'd all household studies wrong;
When dire mishap, though neither shame nor sin,
Sappho herself, and not her Muse, lies in.
The virgin Nine in terror fly the bower,
And matron Juno claims despotic power;
Soon Gothic hags the classic pile o'erturn,
A caudle-cup supplants the sacred urn;
Nor books, nor implements escape their rage,
They spike the ink-stand, and they rend the page;
Poems and Plays one barbarous fate partake,
Ovid and Plautus suffer at the stake,
And Aristotle's only sav'd—to wrap plumb cake.
For years esteem'd all household studies wrong;
When dire mishap, though neither shame nor sin,
Sappho herself, and not her Muse, lies in.
The virgin Nine in terror fly the bower,
And matron Juno claims despotic power;
Soon Gothic hags the classic pile o'erturn,
A caudle-cup supplants the sacred urn;
Nor books, nor implements escape their rage,
They spike the ink-stand, and they rend the page;
Poems and Plays one barbarous fate partake,
Ovid and Plautus suffer at the stake,
And Aristotle's only sav'd—to wrap plumb cake.
Yet, shall a woman tempt the Tragic Scene
And dare—but hold—I must repress my spleen;
I see your hearts are pledg'd to her applause,
White Shakespear's spirit seems to aid her cause;
Well pleas'd to aid—since o'er his sacred bier
A female hand did ample trophies rear,
And gave the greenest laurel that is worshipp'd there.
And dare—but hold—I must repress my spleen;
I see your hearts are pledg'd to her applause,
White Shakespear's spirit seems to aid her cause;
Well pleas'd to aid—since o'er his sacred bier
A female hand did ample trophies rear,
And gave the greenest laurel that is worshipp'd there.
| The Fatal Falsehood | |