 | The Fall of Saguntum |  |
EPILOGUE. Spoken by Mrs. YOUNGER.
Bless
me! what means this Crowding here to Day?
Sure, no Conspiracy, to damn the Play.
Beaux, can there be such mortal Spleen in you?
Or is't meer Want of Something else to do?
I've hit it—for, methought, I heard you say,
“Pr'ythee, does Violante shew to Day?—
“But for our Plays, gads-curse, they're all such Stuff!—
“Yet Wagner and Abericock is well enough.
Sure, no Conspiracy, to damn the Play.
Beaux, can there be such mortal Spleen in you?
Or is't meer Want of Something else to do?
I've hit it—for, methought, I heard you say,
“Pr'ythee, does Violante shew to Day?—
“But for our Plays, gads-curse, they're all such Stuff!—
“Yet Wagner and Abericock is well enough.
For us, our Bard persuades us, that he means
To form this Moral from his Tragic Scenes;
That, after all, there is some Sort of Merit
In that old fashion'd Thing, call'd, Publick Spirit.
We'll grant him then, at least for ought we know,
There might have liv'd, two thousand Years ago,
Such errant Patriots, such poor virtuous Elves,
As still preferr'd the Publick to themselves.—
At our Assemblies had they pass'd their Nights,
Or stood one Stripping at the Den at White's,
The good Saguntines scarce had prov'd so steady,
But every prudent Man had touch'd the Ready.
To form this Moral from his Tragic Scenes;
That, after all, there is some Sort of Merit
In that old fashion'd Thing, call'd, Publick Spirit.
There might have liv'd, two thousand Years ago,
Such errant Patriots, such poor virtuous Elves,
As still preferr'd the Publick to themselves.—
At our Assemblies had they pass'd their Nights,
Or stood one Stripping at the Den at White's,
The good Saguntines scarce had prov'd so steady,
But every prudent Man had touch'd the Ready.
As for poor Fabius, once I gave him over,
And almost lost the General in the Lover.
Methought, he found his Dearee so inviting,
He'd more a Mind to something else than fighting.
Just so 'twould happen here,—should War's Alarms
Summon our powder'd Heroes to their Arms;
Lord, what a Bustle would there be, what Rout!
What Friends, what Int'rest making—to sell out.
There, all our Beaux would emulate our Roman:
Ah! Ladies,—They're the Soldiers for a Woman.
And almost lost the General in the Lover.
Methought, he found his Dearee so inviting,
He'd more a Mind to something else than fighting.
Just so 'twould happen here,—should War's Alarms
Summon our powder'd Heroes to their Arms;
Lord, what a Bustle would there be, what Rout!
What Friends, what Int'rest making—to sell out.
There, all our Beaux would emulate our Roman:
Ah! Ladies,—They're the Soldiers for a Woman.
Well,—you have seen our best Endeavours us'd,
To grace a Work our Rivals had refus'd.
'Tis yours, to judge the injur'd Poet's Cause,
And give him full Revenge in your Applause:
Then view our willing Toils with friendly Eyes,
And, from Saguntum's Fall, this Theatre shall rise.
To grace a Work our Rivals had refus'd.
'Tis yours, to judge the injur'd Poet's Cause,
And give him full Revenge in your Applause:
Then view our willing Toils with friendly Eyes,
And, from Saguntum's Fall, this Theatre shall rise.
| The Fall of Saguntum | |