 | Edwin |  |
4
EPILOGUE: Written by Mr. Molloy. Spoken by Mrs. Brett.
Just taking Coach—our Author press'd my Stay,To beg your Votes in Favour of his Play.
Hang me if I conceive what he can mean,
For all dull Tragedies give me the Spleen.
Howe'er, since I'm engag'd to do him Right,
I'll criticize on what you've seem to-night.
First then—Poetick Justice to maintain,
He needs must make a Monarch sigh in vain:
Next, he has drawn his Dame so very, very—good,
I'm much afraid she is not Flesh and Blood:
His Lover too cools strangely on the Tryal;
A Milk-sop, to be baulk'd for one Denial!
Had he but push'd the Matter home—you'd find
His haughty Mistress might have prov'd more kind.
What would become then of Dramatic Rules?
Ah Ladies! These same Poets are strange Fools!
Suppose the King had brought th'Affair about,
How should the Murther—pray you—be found out?
No jealous Pangs fierce Leolin could move;
There are no Tracks left in the Paths of Love.
For many a Spark has by some Maid been bless'd,
And much good Love gone on—without a Priest;
Yet the succeeding Husband never found
That any Trespasser had broke his Ground:
5
And a kind Husband patches up all Flaws.
But hang the Tragedy, be kind and spare
A Minute's Audience in our own Affair.
Thanks to your Favours—since we now can boast,
That all our Pains to please you were not lost.
Yon Rival Theatre, by Success made great,
Plotting Destruction to our sinking State,
Turn'd our own Arms upon us,—and—woe be to us,
They needs must raise the Devil to undo us!
Strait our Enchanter gave his Spirits Wing,
And conjur'd all the Town within this Ring.
But, Ladies, be not frighted at our Devil;
These merry Fiends are always wondrous Civil.
And hark ye, Beaux;
Know, all the Females you see here on Nights,
Are Witches, and can conjure up strange Sprights;
Yet be not scar'd, but set your Hearts at Ease,
They've Power to lay the Devils which they raise.
| Edwin | |