 | The Temple of Love |  |
EPILOGUE. Spoken by Mrs. Bradshaw.
It
mov'd a Critic's Spleen to think how easy
'Tis grown of late, with empty things, to please ye.
'S death, Sirs, cry'd he, 'tis a fine Learned Age,
When Trill and Caper share the English Stage.
Those who for Music's sake damn'd Words can hear,
Sure for good Wine bad Company wou'd bear.
The one's endur'd till we have quench'd our Thirst,
So for the Music, we excus'd the first,
But why with Dulness shou'd we still be curst.
'Tis grown of late, with empty things, to please ye.
'S death, Sirs, cry'd he, 'tis a fine Learned Age,
When Trill and Caper share the English Stage.
Those who for Music's sake damn'd Words can hear,
Sure for good Wine bad Company wou'd bear.
The one's endur'd till we have quench'd our Thirst,
So for the Music, we excus'd the first,
But why with Dulness shou'd we still be curst.
At last the Bard was silenc'd by a Beau,
How little, Friend, said he, the Town you know,
They're all like me, the World's all sound and show.
Give that! About fine Thoughts don't keep a pother,
We fine Things come but to face one another.
With pretty Sights one House cuts t'other down,
Start too some fresh Temptation for the Town,
Some pretty tender Bud, just newly blown,
To sink the Price of those already shown.
Set up some famous Singer—of no Fame,
And, tho' she's Dutch, Italianize her Name.
What tho' the Singing, or the Face affright,
Worse Syrens get their Twenty Pounds a Night.
Put out Red-Letter'd Bills, and raise your Price,
You'll Lure a select Audience in a trice.
Let Men, like Devils, clatter in your Skies,
Let your Top Ladies condescend to rise.
Get some She-Monster some sixteen Foot high,
Get some Subscription, tho' you don't know why:
Get some fam'd Opera, any how translated,
No matter, so the t'other House don't get it.
Get Cloaths, tho' the Actors with half-pay dispence.
Get Scenes, get Whims, get any thing—but Sence.
Our Author, who stood by, thought this unkind,
And, tho' 'tis hard, wou'd strive a way to find,
To treat your Ear, yet not disgust your Mind.
Too much the English Fair in Wit abound,
To bear with Dulness for the sake of Sound.
No Foreign Scenes so cheap a Treat admit,
And shall we still so poorly think to treat
Superior Beauty, and superior Wit?
No—First ty'd to Notes, ty'd Hand and Feet, We'll write,
To do our Audience and Musician right,
Pleas'd with the Rack, so We can raise Delight.
How little, Friend, said he, the Town you know,
They're all like me, the World's all sound and show.
Give that! About fine Thoughts don't keep a pother,
We fine Things come but to face one another.
With pretty Sights one House cuts t'other down,
Start too some fresh Temptation for the Town,
Some pretty tender Bud, just newly blown,
To sink the Price of those already shown.
Set up some famous Singer—of no Fame,
And, tho' she's Dutch, Italianize her Name.
What tho' the Singing, or the Face affright,
Worse Syrens get their Twenty Pounds a Night.
Put out Red-Letter'd Bills, and raise your Price,
You'll Lure a select Audience in a trice.
Let Men, like Devils, clatter in your Skies,
Let your Top Ladies condescend to rise.
Get some Subscription, tho' you don't know why:
Get some fam'd Opera, any how translated,
No matter, so the t'other House don't get it.
Get Cloaths, tho' the Actors with half-pay dispence.
Get Scenes, get Whims, get any thing—but Sence.
Our Author, who stood by, thought this unkind,
And, tho' 'tis hard, wou'd strive a way to find,
To treat your Ear, yet not disgust your Mind.
Too much the English Fair in Wit abound,
To bear with Dulness for the sake of Sound.
No Foreign Scenes so cheap a Treat admit,
And shall we still so poorly think to treat
Superior Beauty, and superior Wit?
No—First ty'd to Notes, ty'd Hand and Feet, We'll write,
To do our Audience and Musician right,
Pleas'd with the Rack, so We can raise Delight.
FINIS.
| The Temple of Love | |