 | Heroick Love |  |
EPILOGUE. By Bevill Higgons, Esq;
What
will the Galleries, nay Boxes say?
There's not one Man destroy'd in all our Play.
Murder and Blood have long possess'd the Stage,
And pleas'd the Genius of a Barbarous Age,
But since the Poet's task's the Soul to move,
And with his Objects, make you Grieve or Love,
Surviving Wretches should more pity find
Than they who die, and leave their Woes behind.
There's not one Man destroy'd in all our Play.
Murder and Blood have long possess'd the Stage,
And pleas'd the Genius of a Barbarous Age,
But since the Poet's task's the Soul to move,
And with his Objects, make you Grieve or Love,
Surviving Wretches should more pity find
Than they who die, and leave their Woes behind.
On Athen's Stage, when Greece the World gave Law.
Her sprightly Dames our Agamemnon saw;
They shar'd his Sorrows, did his Fate bemoan,
And always made the Hero's wrongs their own.
But then the World was Gay, and Nature Young,
Mens Passions were more high, and Fancy strong;
Poets could either raise, or make so sad,
That going Home, whole Audiences ran Mad.
In vain we would your colder Hearts inspire,
And blow up Flames, without the Seeds of Fire.
Her sprightly Dames our Agamemnon saw;
They shar'd his Sorrows, did his Fate bemoan,
And always made the Hero's wrongs their own.
But then the World was Gay, and Nature Young,
Mens Passions were more high, and Fancy strong;
Poets could either raise, or make so sad,
That going Home, whole Audiences ran Mad.
In vain we would your colder Hearts inspire,
And blow up Flames, without the Seeds of Fire.
Three thousand Years ago, illustrious Dames
Attended Camps, and gave the Heroes Flames;
Now every Wench, when Batter'd and Decay'd,
To Flanders fled, where straight the Rampant Jade
At once the Colonel serv'd, and the Brigade.
Attended Camps, and gave the Heroes Flames;
Now every Wench, when Batter'd and Decay'd,
To Flanders fled, where straight the Rampant Jade
At once the Colonel serv'd, and the Brigade.
If Poets have the Privilege of Laws
To challenge Juries, who must try their Cause,
To judge of Wit, the Critick be debarr'd,
Who often Damns, what he ne'er saw nor heard;
Besides, he still to Poets bears a spite,
For never yet was Critick, who could write.
For You, the Viler Rabble of the Pit,
To challenge Juries, who must try their Cause,
To judge of Wit, the Critick be debarr'd,
Who often Damns, what he ne'er saw nor heard;
For never yet was Critick, who could write.
Who want good Nature, tho' you have no Wit.
Maliciously you imitate the Times,
Like Judges try the Men, and not their Crimes;
With Noise and Nonsense whom you hate decry,
And if demanded, give no reason why,
But when no pity can the Torrent stem,
Attaint the Poet, whom you can't condemn.
'Tis on that shining Circle we depend,
[To the Ladies.
For You—
Our Poet writes, in gratitude defend:
Of Love and Honour, he a Pattern meant,
And took the bright Ideas, that you lent:
Your Picture drawn, show then the Painter Grace
Who fails, in an inimitable Face.
| Heroick Love | |