 | The Tragedy of King Henry IV. of France |  |
xiv
EPILOGUE; By Mr. Sewell : Spoken by Mrs. Bullock.
Of
all Invasions in the present Age,
None have prov'd worse than those upon the Stage;
Where little Rebels still have made pretence
To ruin Learning, and to banish Sense:
With Priestly Zeal, tho shame'd in their Designs,
They fire again, like Alberoni's Mines.
None have prov'd worse than those upon the Stage;
Where little Rebels still have made pretence
To ruin Learning, and to banish Sense:
With Priestly Zeal, tho shame'd in their Designs,
They fire again, like Alberoni's Mines.
First then, for honest Satire now begins
With a black Catalogue of all your Sins,
A Troop of French last Season won your Hearts,
Listing, like Falstaff's Men, in hopes of Shirts.
The Tumbling Rout and Scaramouch remov'd,
The Masquerade your Better Parts improv'd;
A Scene of Mysteries, where Nymph at Spark
Might level blindfold,—and yet hit her Mark:
As in the Sabine Days the Roman-Fair
Was but a Plot to scramble for good Ware;
This politick Invention seems the same,
Where various Poachers spring their various Game.
How oft with Spouse has met unknowing Cit,
Both Parties satisfy'd, yet both been bit?
So much by Ignorance your Flames improve,
And all Disguises are but Whets to Love.
How much more finely your Intrigues are laid?
Since Jove began the Masquerading Trade;
He chose, impolitick, the Husband's Shape;
Were Moderns to do so,—'t must be a Rape.
Pray what Inventions next your Minds engage,
To steal your Gold, and wean you from the Stage?
Shall dear, dear Harlequin from France return,
And in low Farce for Paint and Ruffles burn?
No, hark! another Foreign Note I hear,
Italian Nonsense trickles thro my Ear!
Behold unnumber'd Beaus and Ladies flock!
Subscribe, as if to Missisippi-Stock.
Go on, and make your English Maxim known;
Bubbles to every Country but your own.
With a black Catalogue of all your Sins,
A Troop of French last Season won your Hearts,
Listing, like Falstaff's Men, in hopes of Shirts.
The Tumbling Rout and Scaramouch remov'd,
The Masquerade your Better Parts improv'd;
A Scene of Mysteries, where Nymph at Spark
Might level blindfold,—and yet hit her Mark:
xv
Was but a Plot to scramble for good Ware;
This politick Invention seems the same,
Where various Poachers spring their various Game.
How oft with Spouse has met unknowing Cit,
Both Parties satisfy'd, yet both been bit?
So much by Ignorance your Flames improve,
And all Disguises are but Whets to Love.
How much more finely your Intrigues are laid?
Since Jove began the Masquerading Trade;
He chose, impolitick, the Husband's Shape;
Were Moderns to do so,—'t must be a Rape.
Pray what Inventions next your Minds engage,
To steal your Gold, and wean you from the Stage?
Shall dear, dear Harlequin from France return,
And in low Farce for Paint and Ruffles burn?
No, hark! another Foreign Note I hear,
Italian Nonsense trickles thro my Ear!
Behold unnumber'd Beaus and Ladies flock!
Subscribe, as if to Missisippi-Stock.
Go on, and make your English Maxim known;
Bubbles to every Country but your own.
| The Tragedy of King Henry IV. of France | |