The Works of the Late Aaron Hill ... In Four Volumes. Consisting of Letters on Various Subjects, And of Original Poems, Moral and Facetious. With An Essay on the Art of Acting |
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EPILOGUE, To the same: spoke by Monimia. |
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 | The Works of the Late Aaron Hill |  |
EPILOGUE, To the same: spoke by Monimia.
I was just plotting, as the curtain fell,
To hit the general taste, and please ye well:
'Twere a sure way, thought I, their frowns to soften,
Should I, oft kill'd, and brought to life, as often,
Now, in good earnest, draw oblivion o'er me,
And die—as Tragedy has done, before me.
Troth! it were no untimely resolution,
Had one a heart dispos'd for—execution:
Since there's a mode in minds, as well as dress,
'Tis too old fashion'd now to give distress.
When you're resolv'd to laugh, and to be easy,
Why should unsummon'd sense break in, to teize ye?
Once, we had tuneless times—so out of measure,
That wit was business, here—and thought was pleasure.
Naked of song, dance, farce,—or Harlequining!
A plain, dry Play, then charm'd, good heaven!—by meaning,
Well! since it comes affirm'd—we must receive it;
But, 'twas so long ago, I scarce believe it.
To hit the general taste, and please ye well:
'Twere a sure way, thought I, their frowns to soften,
Should I, oft kill'd, and brought to life, as often,
Now, in good earnest, draw oblivion o'er me,
And die—as Tragedy has done, before me.
Troth! it were no untimely resolution,
Had one a heart dispos'd for—execution:
Since there's a mode in minds, as well as dress,
'Tis too old fashion'd now to give distress.
When you're resolv'd to laugh, and to be easy,
Why should unsummon'd sense break in, to teize ye?
36
That wit was business, here—and thought was pleasure.
Naked of song, dance, farce,—or Harlequining!
A plain, dry Play, then charm'd, good heaven!—by meaning,
Well! since it comes affirm'd—we must receive it;
But, 'twas so long ago, I scarce believe it.
This age, thank heaven, is wiser—Pit and Gallery,
Treat their good, grave, forefathers taste, with raillery,
What! sit three hours, to hear dull Actors prating,
No Entertainment, after all that waiting—
I'd give a dozen such Plays—for one Bear-baiting?
Your humble actors, slowly stretch ambition,
To top these arts of Play-house erudition:
How e'er unapt by time, and you conducted,
We too, shall mend, grow wise, and be instructed:
Would I were six yards taller tho'—to charm ye!
Or petite Mademoiselle en chienne t' alarm ye.
Something, I soon, must learn above plain speaking—
Teach me, some pig of taste, thy art of squeaking!
No Patentee, now, holds us worth contracting,
'Till we have learnt more ways than one, of acting.
What thinking face will any praise ordain us,
Whose climbing eyes have scal'd—Mynheer Cajanus!
Give place Great Alexander!—Go, retire—
We have enroll'd a Hero—Three foot higher!
From Cæsar's death, no future grief shall flow,
Since every joyful night restores Pierro!
While poor Monimia's and Castalio's die,
Aye, let 'em go—the improv'd spectators cry;
Mind what a cunning fellow—Harlequin is!
And what a charming plot in every scene is:
Well! in our turns, we yet may entertain ye;
We shall be soon struck dumb—and, then we gain ye.
Treat their good, grave, forefathers taste, with raillery,
What! sit three hours, to hear dull Actors prating,
No Entertainment, after all that waiting—
I'd give a dozen such Plays—for one Bear-baiting?
Your humble actors, slowly stretch ambition,
To top these arts of Play-house erudition:
How e'er unapt by time, and you conducted,
We too, shall mend, grow wise, and be instructed:
Would I were six yards taller tho'—to charm ye!
Or petite Mademoiselle en chienne t' alarm ye.
37
Teach me, some pig of taste, thy art of squeaking!
No Patentee, now, holds us worth contracting,
'Till we have learnt more ways than one, of acting.
What thinking face will any praise ordain us,
Whose climbing eyes have scal'd—Mynheer Cajanus!
Give place Great Alexander!—Go, retire—
We have enroll'd a Hero—Three foot higher!
From Cæsar's death, no future grief shall flow,
Since every joyful night restores Pierro!
While poor Monimia's and Castalio's die,
Aye, let 'em go—the improv'd spectators cry;
Mind what a cunning fellow—Harlequin is!
And what a charming plot in every scene is:
Well! in our turns, we yet may entertain ye;
We shall be soon struck dumb—and, then we gain ye.
| The Works of the Late Aaron Hill | |