 | The Princess of Cleve |  |
THE EPILOGUE.
What is this Wit which Cowley cou'd not name?The rare Inducement to a perfect Fame,
The Art of Nature curious in a Frame.
Is it a Whig, a Trimmer, or a Tory,
Or an Old Fop forgotten in the Story?
'Tis Honour veil'd in Honesty's Disguise,
Or Cesar like a Fencer in a Prize;
'Tis Pindar's Ramble, Nature in Misrule,
A Politician acted by a Fool.
'Tis all Variety that Arts can give,
The Danaid's filling of a Leakey Sieve:
The Valleys Sweets, and the distilling Spring,
The brimming Bacchus that the Muses bring,
To drink the Health of England's Glorious King.
A Statesman thoughtful for a Clown revil'd,
A Pestle and a Mortar for a Child.
'Tis a true Principle, but hardly shown,
An Artificial Sigh, a Virgins Groan,
When the first night her Lover layes her on.
'Tis like a Lass that Gads to gather May,
'Tis like the Comedy you have to day,
A Bulling Gallant in a wanton Play.
FINIS.
| The Princess of Cleve | |