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,
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 | The Works of the Late Aaron Hill |  |
Epilogue,
spoke by Miss Kitty Bolton.
Ladies!
You'll say, since 'tis not you, I wait my doom from,
Whence does this forward little gipsy come from?
From my own sex, all I yet hope, is laughter;
Lord knows what passions I may move, hereafter,
At present, I'm too heart-whole, to complain t' ye,
And not quite old enough, to give one pain t' ye.
Whence does this forward little gipsy come from?
From my own sex, all I yet hope, is laughter;
Lord knows what passions I may move, hereafter,
At present, I'm too heart-whole, to complain t' ye,
And not quite old enough, to give one pain t' ye.
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To you, dear gentlemen, with due petition,
Comes a pure innocent, in soft submission;
Forward presumer, I confess, to teize ye;
Some years too soon (as some folks think) to please ye:
Yet, smile—you can't imagine, what temptation
There lies, to willing minds, in provocation.
Comes a pure innocent, in soft submission;
Forward presumer, I confess, to teize ye;
Some years too soon (as some folks think) to please ye:
Yet, smile—you can't imagine, what temptation
There lies, to willing minds, in provocation.
Kindly
accepted now, and worth your heeding,
I shall improve apace—with good stage-breeding.
Let me come on, and talk, then, fear no shrinking,
For I, already pay it off, with thinking.
The younger, Sirs, the better—that plain fact is,
And she, who soon begins—will have most practice.
Yet Mamma bit poor Kitty, when she told her,
She'd grow more fit to please as she grew older.
I shall improve apace—with good stage-breeding.
Let me come on, and talk, then, fear no shrinking,
For I, already pay it off, with thinking.
The younger, Sirs, the better—that plain fact is,
And she, who soon begins—will have most practice.
Yet Mamma bit poor Kitty, when she told her,
She'd grow more fit to please as she grew older.
Heav'n knows, indeed, what I am fit for, yet!
Beauty's not mine—and I can plead no wit.
Scarce had I had one claim to your compassion,
But that no wit, and little worth's the fashion,
That's hope—then I have learnt to sing—there's merit,
Nay, I'm told, I dance not ill—that's spirit.
Oh, gentlemen! trust but to future action,
And, four years hence, I'll move, with strange attraction.
Beauty's not mine—and I can plead no wit.
Scarce had I had one claim to your compassion,
But that no wit, and little worth's the fashion,
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Nay, I'm told, I dance not ill—that's spirit.
Oh, gentlemen! trust but to future action,
And, four years hence, I'll move, with strange attraction.
| The Works of the Late Aaron Hill | |