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, for the Play, call'd Much ado about nothing,) Spoke by Mrs
Pritchard.
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 | The Works of the Late Aaron Hill |  |
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EPILOGUE, for the Play, call'd Much ado about nothing,) Spoke by Mrs Pritchard.
Hold her not thankless, that (oblig'd by you)
She thus, with nothing, pays, your Much ado:
'Tis the world's frugal mode, and each wise nation
Keeps weights, and scales of air, for obligation.
Sunshine pretence ends, oft, in rainy weather;
And many a head's best boast—is hat and feather!
Trust nothing, but your wives—we plot no treason,
'Till unkind husband's cease, to do us reason.
But, as for wit, fame, taste—they're mere deceivers:
Ev'n politic's shew teeth, but bite believers.
She thus, with nothing, pays, your Much ado:
'Tis the world's frugal mode, and each wise nation
Keeps weights, and scales of air, for obligation.
Sunshine pretence ends, oft, in rainy weather;
And many a head's best boast—is hat and feather!
Trust nothing, but your wives—we plot no treason,
'Till unkind husband's cease, to do us reason.
But, as for wit, fame, taste—they're mere deceivers:
Ev'n politic's shew teeth, but bite believers.
WHO, that has seen high-posted zeal, peace-hating,
Raise dust for Ins, and Outs, by turns debating,
E're guess'd, till time and chance, set crowds a staring,
That Outs, and Ins, gave coats, with all one bearing!
Who, that, of late, saw bold Rebellion's standard
Rais'd, rounded, common-soldier'd, and commander'd,
Hop'd, at a spurt, to see such schemes, to cramp us
Scatter'd, and scouting back, to brouze Mount Grampus!
Raise dust for Ins, and Outs, by turns debating,
E're guess'd, till time and chance, set crowds a staring,
That Outs, and Ins, gave coats, with all one bearing!
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Rais'd, rounded, common-soldier'd, and commander'd,
Hop'd, at a spurt, to see such schemes, to cramp us
Scatter'd, and scouting back, to brouze Mount Grampus!
WHO, ye bloom'd fair! most us'd to soft protesting,
And hardly brought to think, love's wounds but jesting,
Sees her scorch'd victim, at her feet expiring,
And dreams he'll come to life, for other's firing?
And hardly brought to think, love's wounds but jesting,
Sees her scorch'd victim, at her feet expiring,
And dreams he'll come to life, for other's firing?
All, that you see, touch, taste, hear, wish, or dream on,
Is but deceit's broad bog, to build esteem on.
Our Shakespear knew mankind, and rightly drew 'em;
And, as for women, faith he peep'd quite thro' 'em.
I, and my Benedick, each sex emblazing,
Shew neither over-fit, for either's praising.
All brought to all, each lives to gull the other,
And Disappointment closes love's long pother.
Tho' much ado is passion's loud beginning,
'Tis about nothing—still, and not worth winning.
Is but deceit's broad bog, to build esteem on.
Our Shakespear knew mankind, and rightly drew 'em;
And, as for women, faith he peep'd quite thro' 'em.
I, and my Benedick, each sex emblazing,
Shew neither over-fit, for either's praising.
All brought to all, each lives to gull the other,
And Disappointment closes love's long pother.
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'Tis about nothing—still, and not worth winning.
But, I forget my cue—thus humbly low,
Serious, I pay the solid thanks, I owe.
Warm'd, by quick sense of your protective praise,
Inflaming gratitude more worth may raise.
Bid unforc'd laughter rise, from native strains,
And free-touch'd humour shun distortive pains.
Bid tears, unwhining, find their source within,
And, from touch'd hearts, the band's applause begin.
Un-borrow'd be my pow'r, or none at all;
Let me, on pity, not for pity, call.
Failing to move your grief, were judgment's fault,
For sorrow moves me, first, by nature, taught;
Nature, in unaffected freedom, drest,
By plain simplicity, hits passion, best.
Shown, like your virtues, [to the gentlemen] strongest, without glare,
And, like your beauties, [to the ladies] without paint, most fair.
Serious, I pay the solid thanks, I owe.
Warm'd, by quick sense of your protective praise,
Inflaming gratitude more worth may raise.
Bid unforc'd laughter rise, from native strains,
And free-touch'd humour shun distortive pains.
Bid tears, unwhining, find their source within,
And, from touch'd hearts, the band's applause begin.
Un-borrow'd be my pow'r, or none at all;
Let me, on pity, not for pity, call.
Failing to move your grief, were judgment's fault,
For sorrow moves me, first, by nature, taught;
Nature, in unaffected freedom, drest,
By plain simplicity, hits passion, best.
Shown, like your virtues, [to the gentlemen] strongest, without glare,
And, like your beauties, [to the ladies] without paint, most fair.
| The Works of the Late Aaron Hill | |