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 Every Man in his Folly, Spoke by Mrs Clive.
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 | The Works of the Late Aaron Hill |  |
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EPILOGUE, To Every Man in his Folly, Spoke by Mrs Clive.
SILENCE —sit down, Sirs—hats off—that will do—I know, you love a joke, if it be new;
You smart ones of the pit—I speak to you,
Criticks—mistake me not, for I protest,
Not one of you are aim'd at in the jest;
But, I perceive, among you, some of those,
Our author has, to night, thought fit t'expose,
You, Virtuosi—Connoisseurs—and Beaux.
A poet may—by just Dramatic laws,
Except against such jurors in his cause,
As parties, in the suit.—His humble prayer,
Is therefore only to the wise, and fair,
For this first fault, the criminal you'd spare.
'Tis from the life, his characters are shewn,
You're, first, invited here—then pencil'd down:
They, only, are to blame—who will the likeness own.
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Perhaps, this circle may'nt the like supply;
O, yes, it does!—I have you, in my eye!
And, gad,—you're no unfashionable pair,
But, hush—sit still—you own it, if you stir.
In Araminta! pha!—ill-judging creature!
He has not hit you; in one single feature:
To make her, squeamishly, reject a lover,
When ev'ry trial, that cou'd shock, was over,
And nought remain'd, but what, with joy, shou'd move her.
She is no woman, faith—who, in that station,
Cou'd run the dangerous risk—of hesitation:
Gad!—we're for no such ticklish situation!
Give us a certainty, however small,
It must be better, sure!—than none at all.
But hold—what need have I, such truths to tell?
You penetrating devils!—you know't, too well.
Next—of our author's humour, wit, and plot,
Style, chaste expression, and—I know not what:
I saw, how 'twas—and faith—I ask'd him, plainly,
If he propos'd success, from being cleanly?
I bid him, here and there, throw in a scene,
(But, pray says I—take care, 'tis wrapt up clean,)
Of something, psha!—you all know, what I mean.
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And said—if I can tell you—let me die.
What do you think the silly creature said?
That his chaste muse had yet—her maidenhead,
And should not be a prostitute, egad.
But now—I have a word, or two, to say
To you, who feel the satire of the Play:
What! you expect—that I should court your favour,
Curt'sy and pray;—I scorn such poor behaviour:
Don't you all know, when you, with us, dispute,
We have an argument to strike you mute?
And, as friend Bays has said—look to't—we'll do't.
Then yeild, at once—nor, 'gainst our poet, thunder:
I'll try, if you, or I, will be kept under.
| The Works of the Late Aaron Hill | |