University of Virginia Library

EPILOGUE.

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An original play called “Pulaski” was acted at college, and Master Howard Payne, at that time only fourteen years of age, and who sustained the only female character in the play, was appointed to write and pronounce the epilogue. He spoke it in the dress of Lodoiska, who entered hastily as the curtain fell.

I haste, kind guests, as you perhaps will say
A wretched pleader for a wretched play.
Oh, had you seen, repentant for his errors,
Our trembling author's frown-subduing terrors,
Even if you disapprov'd you would not show it,
But spare the work in pity of the poet!
But soft a while—let me a moment pause—
Speak for myself—and then assert his cause;
Tell me, ye beaux, are your affections free?
You need not answer, for I plainly see
That you're all dying, luckless beaux, for me!
Ladies! do you no indignation feel
That Lodoiska should your lovers steal?
Be calm, dear ladies! set your hearts at rest,
You shall retain your beaux, and make them blest!
For, lest a late discovery prove inhuman,
In time I'll tell them that their fair's—no woman.
“No woman!” say you?—gentle folks, don't stare!
The transformation is no more than fair!
So many women now our breeches wear
That we must sport their dresses, or go bare!

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Says that young lady in the gunboat bonnet,
Or seems to say,—“WE, sir,—WE wear the breeches, sir! Fie on it!”
Sweet Miss, I ask your pardon, but if you
The fact deny, I'll try to prove it true.
Are you not soldiers? Fight ye not with—eyes?
And many a stout heart carry by surprise?
Who can withstand “th' artillery of charms”?
The harvest heroes yield—to woman's arms!
Are ye not merchants? and to lose vexation
Do you not marry upon speculation,
And with the highest bidder make a trade
On which embargoes can be laid?
But, woman-like, my tongue once under weigh
From the main point, has gone so far astray
That, self-absorb'd, I've quite forgot “Our play.”
“Our play!” the critics sneeringly exclaim,—
Our farce” were surely a much fitter name.
Remember, critics, what you've seen this night
Is but an unfledg'd poet's infant flight;
'Tis yours to tempt him with bright plumes to rise,
Spring from the plain, and glitter in the skies;
Like our own Eagle, a career to run,
Free as the air, and brilliant as the sun.
Ye lovely fair! beneath whose guardian eyes
The humblest bud of genius never dies,
And with your cheering smiles this honest claim,—
“The smiles of beauty are the wreaths of fame.”