Mr. Cooke's Original Poems with Imitations and Translations of Several Select Passages of the Antients, In Four Parts: To which are added Proposals For perfecting the English Language |
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 | Mr. Cooke's Original Poems |  |
EPILOGUE the First. Spoke by Mrs. Younger in the Character of the Country Wife.
Here, as your Faces in a Glass, ye see,
On this small Stage, the World's Epitome.
On this small Stage, the World's Epitome.
Whatever Women or the Men pretend
Of Virtue, Honour,—Pleasure is their End:
For this the Statesmen jar, whate'er they feign:
What one enjoys another strives to gain:
To them the Lure's Authority and Treasure,
They nourish Strife, and are the Source of Pleasure
The pamper'd Priest, who loud for Temp'rance crys,
With Boniface's Phiz, and Falstaffe's Size,
While he blames Factions, sets the World on Fire,
And preaches even Charity for Hire:
Nothing unpay'd the Oracle reveals,
But, pleas'd with Tribute, soon his Lips unseals:
The Poet too, pleas'd when he pleases all,
Makes Virtue rise, like Stocks, and sometimes fall:
Some Chambermaid he chuses, hang the Jokor,
To deal with Beauty, like an Alley-Broker.
If such wise Heads as these at Pleasure aim,
Why shou'd poor Woman bear such Loads of Shame?
Whom ye pretend a Priv'lege to controul,
A Sex which some divest of Sense and Soul;
Yet can this senseless Thing, which ye despise,
Rob ye of all your Senses thro your Eyes,
Can, from the lowest Peasant to the Crown,
Pull, in a Moment, all your Courage down.
Of Virtue, Honour,—Pleasure is their End:
For this the Statesmen jar, whate'er they feign:
What one enjoys another strives to gain:
To them the Lure's Authority and Treasure,
They nourish Strife, and are the Source of Pleasure
The pamper'd Priest, who loud for Temp'rance crys,
With Boniface's Phiz, and Falstaffe's Size,
While he blames Factions, sets the World on Fire,
And preaches even Charity for Hire:
Nothing unpay'd the Oracle reveals,
But, pleas'd with Tribute, soon his Lips unseals:
170
Makes Virtue rise, like Stocks, and sometimes fall:
Some Chambermaid he chuses, hang the Jokor,
To deal with Beauty, like an Alley-Broker.
If such wise Heads as these at Pleasure aim,
Why shou'd poor Woman bear such Loads of Shame?
Whom ye pretend a Priv'lege to controul,
A Sex which some divest of Sense and Soul;
Yet can this senseless Thing, which ye despise,
Rob ye of all your Senses thro your Eyes,
Can, from the lowest Peasant to the Crown,
Pull, in a Moment, all your Courage down.
| Mr. Cooke's Original Poems | |