 | Ulysses |  |
EPILOGUE, Spoke by Mrs. Bracegirdle.
Just going to take Water, at the StairsI stopp'd, and came again to beg your Pray'rs;
You see how ill my Love has been repaid,
That I am like to live and die a Maid;
Poetick Rules and Justice to maintain,
I to the Woods am order'd back again,
To Madam Cinthia, and her Virgin Train.
'Tis an uncomfortable Life they lead;
Instead of Quilts and Down, the Silvan Bed
With Skins of Beasts, with Leaves and Moss is spread;
No Morning Toilets do their Chambers grace,
Where famous Pearl Cosmeticks find a Place,
With Powder for the Teeth, and Plaister for the Face.
But in Defiance of Complexion, they,
Like arrant Huswives, rise by Break of Day,
Cut a brown Crust, saddle their Nags, and Mounting,
In scorn of the Green-Sickness ride a Hunting:
Your Sal, and Harts-horn Drops, they deal not in;
They have no Vapours, nor no witty Spleen.
No Coffee to be had, and I am told,
As to the Tea they drink, 'tis mostly cold.
For Conversation, nothing can be worse,
'Tis all amongst themselves, and that's the Curse.
One Topick there, as here, does seldom fail,
We Women rarely want a Theme to rail;
But bating that one Pleasure of Backbiting,
There is no Earthly Thing they can delight in.
There are no Indian Houses, to drop in
And fancy Stuffs, and chuse a pretty Screen,
To while away an Hour or so—I swear
These Cups are pretty, but they're deadly dear:
And if some unexpected Friend appear,
The Dev'l!—Who cou'd have thought to meet you here?
We should but very badly entertain
You that delight in Toasting and Champaign;
But keep your tender Persons safe at home,
We know you hate hard Riding: But if some
Tough, honest, Country Fox-Hunter would come,
Visit our Goddess, and her Maiden Court,
'Tis Ten to One but we may show him Sport.
| Ulysses | |