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EPILOGUE: Spoken by Mrs. BRETT.
Hold
, are you Mad?—so I'm oblig'd to tell ye,
A famous Poet once instructed Nelly.
Forgive, if great Examples we pursue,
Weigh the Respect that to the Dead is due.
But we in vain to rival them pretend,
And what pleas'd then, perhaps may now offend.
These wiser Times their Ancestors deride,
And diff'rent Maxims your Behaviour guide.
Then Wit cou'd thrive without the mighty Aid
Of Conjurers, nor dreaded Masquerade.
There was a Time when Love and Honour sway'd,
The Youth was faithful to the yielding Maid.
Th'Exchange was only throng'd with plodding Cits,
And Lords then condescended to be Wits.
We made the Great for Sustenance our Quarry,
Nor were we forc'd for Countenance—to marry.
The Ladies then, tho' not so fair as you,
Therefore excepted; for if Fame says true,
They liv'd, and lov'd, and did—just as you do.
Then was the Time—Hang those Pedantic Days,
What we ne'er imitate, why should we praise?
Yet should we praise the Maxims you pursue,
You would be loth—the Devil should have his Due.
For so mysteriously the Moderns wound,
We think they praise us, when we are lampoon'd.—
A famous Poet once instructed Nelly.
Forgive, if great Examples we pursue,
Weigh the Respect that to the Dead is due.
But we in vain to rival them pretend,
And what pleas'd then, perhaps may now offend.
These wiser Times their Ancestors deride,
And diff'rent Maxims your Behaviour guide.
Then Wit cou'd thrive without the mighty Aid
Of Conjurers, nor dreaded Masquerade.
There was a Time when Love and Honour sway'd,
The Youth was faithful to the yielding Maid.
Th'Exchange was only throng'd with plodding Cits,
And Lords then condescended to be Wits.
We made the Great for Sustenance our Quarry,
Nor were we forc'd for Countenance—to marry.
The Ladies then, tho' not so fair as you,
Therefore excepted; for if Fame says true,
They liv'd, and lov'd, and did—just as you do.
Then was the Time—Hang those Pedantic Days,
What we ne'er imitate, why should we praise?
Yet should we praise the Maxims you pursue,
You would be loth—the Devil should have his Due.
We think they praise us, when we are lampoon'd.—
Fearful our Praises you should mis-conceive,
The artful Theme to other Pens we leave:
Dull nauseous Flattery shall be suppress'd,
No Laughter sought by some indecent Jest.
Our Muse with waggish Epilogue disdains,
Instead of Farce, to close the Tragic Scenes.
The artful Theme to other Pens we leave:
Dull nauseous Flattery shall be suppress'd,
No Laughter sought by some indecent Jest.
Our Muse with waggish Epilogue disdains,
Instead of Farce, to close the Tragic Scenes.
Let others thus hunt mercenary Fame,
Debase the Stage, and wrong the Poet's Name;
We hope an Audience of a juster Taste,
Where Vice and Nonsense are alike disgrac'd.
We hope—oh may our Hopes find bless'd Success!
That some will mourn for Virtue in Distress.
Debase the Stage, and wrong the Poet's Name;
We hope an Audience of a juster Taste,
Where Vice and Nonsense are alike disgrac'd.
We hope—oh may our Hopes find bless'd Success!
That some will mourn for Virtue in Distress.
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