 | The Mistakes, or, The False Report |  |
EPILOGUE Writ by Mr. N. Tate.
Spoken by Mrs. Butler in Mans Cloaths.
As
Malefactors brought to Execution,
Have leave t'Harrangue before their Dissolution:
Such favour your poor Criminall beseeches,
Something to say to justify her Breeches.
To strut with Feather, Tilter, Lace and Blue,
I have as good pretence as most of you.
'Twas time to take this Warlike Dress in Vogue,
To guard my dang'rous Post of Epilogue;
Where lurching Wits like Rapperees appear:
And Coward Critique still attack's our Rear.
I stand your Shot—To storm this little Fort,
Let's see who dares—I've that shall find you sport.
Damn your French way of shooting on the Stretch,
Give me the Man bears up and mounts the Breach.
Entrench'd i'th' Pit you sit securely Rageing,
You know who'le have the odds in close Engaging.
Have leave t'Harrangue before their Dissolution:
Such favour your poor Criminall beseeches,
Something to say to justify her Breeches.
To strut with Feather, Tilter, Lace and Blue,
I have as good pretence as most of you.
'Twas time to take this Warlike Dress in Vogue,
To guard my dang'rous Post of Epilogue;
Where lurching Wits like Rapperees appear:
And Coward Critique still attack's our Rear.
I stand your Shot—To storm this little Fort,
Let's see who dares—I've that shall find you sport.
Damn your French way of shooting on the Stretch,
Give me the Man bears up and mounts the Breach.
Entrench'd i'th' Pit you sit securely Rageing,
You know who'le have the odds in close Engaging.
But this is all exceeding my Commission,
To swagger while our Poet makes Submission:
I told the tim'rous Fool 'twas not the way,
A worse Mistake then any in his Play,
But he has writ just as you Fight—for Pay.
Like you he justifies his Cause—for Life,
For Fame, for Liberty, for Bratts, and Wife:
He writes, but 'tis not for the sake of Writing;
When you your Bilbo Scarf and Plume are Dighting,
For Heaven's sake tell me—is't for love of Fighting?
Money's his Plea; that makes the Lawyer trudge,
The Priest Preach Counter, and Corrupts the Judge.
Meer want our Youngsters to write Plays impowers,
Playing will neither do their Work—nor Ours.
Then since you are so kind to Their Deserts,
Give, next, Us Women leave to show our Parts:
Let us perceive but the kind Humour seize ye,
We'le try our skill, and do our best to please ye.
To swagger while our Poet makes Submission:
I told the tim'rous Fool 'twas not the way,
A worse Mistake then any in his Play,
But he has writ just as you Fight—for Pay.
Like you he justifies his Cause—for Life,
For Fame, for Liberty, for Bratts, and Wife:
He writes, but 'tis not for the sake of Writing;
When you your Bilbo Scarf and Plume are Dighting,
For Heaven's sake tell me—is't for love of Fighting?
Money's his Plea; that makes the Lawyer trudge,
The Priest Preach Counter, and Corrupts the Judge.
Meer want our Youngsters to write Plays impowers,
Playing will neither do their Work—nor Ours.
Then since you are so kind to Their Deserts,
Give, next, Us Women leave to show our Parts:
Let us perceive but the kind Humour seize ye,
We'le try our skill, and do our best to please ye.
| The Mistakes, or, The False Report | |