 | The Victim |  |
EPILOGUE. Written by Mr. CIBBER, and Spoken by Mrs. OLDFIELD.
Criticks
, a Truce: 'Tis true, I just now dy'd:
What then! why now I walk, and so you're satisfy'd,
For Form, I could have meal'd my Face, and chose
In Peals of Thunder through the Stage t'have rose;
But troth! I had rather spoil the Jest, than dawb my Cloaths.
A Hole but two Foot wide! Sure Bays must doat!
I'm ribb'd with nine wide Whale-bone Yards of Petticoat.
Beside, my own way (take my Word's) as good,
I full as well shall please in Flesh, and Blood:
Thus having fairly told you my Condition,
I now proceed to open my Commission.
What then! why now I walk, and so you're satisfy'd,
For Form, I could have meal'd my Face, and chose
In Peals of Thunder through the Stage t'have rose;
But troth! I had rather spoil the Jest, than dawb my Cloaths.
A Hole but two Foot wide! Sure Bays must doat!
I'm ribb'd with nine wide Whale-bone Yards of Petticoat.
Beside, my own way (take my Word's) as good,
I full as well shall please in Flesh, and Blood:
Thus having fairly told you my Condition,
I now proceed to open my Commission.
Know then, a friendly Shade from Realms below,
To you, that live, I'm sent a Plenipo,
To warn both Sexes to reform their Lives,
As Lovers, Husbands, Virgins, or as Wives:
For, when I tell your Punishments reserv'd,
You'll rue the Hour, that e'er from Truth you swerv'd.
As for Example—
W'have got a Prude, you've seen that Box adorn,
Who with her Lovers Merit rais'd her Scorn,
And now (to shew to what her Ghost is fated)
Sh'as nine plump Daughters by the Man she hated.
To you, that live, I'm sent a Plenipo,
To warn both Sexes to reform their Lives,
As Lovers, Husbands, Virgins, or as Wives:
For, when I tell your Punishments reserv'd,
You'll rue the Hour, that e'er from Truth you swerv'd.
As for Example—
W'have got a Prude, you've seen that Box adorn,
Who with her Lovers Merit rais'd her Scorn,
And now (to shew to what her Ghost is fated)
Sh'as nine plump Daughters by the Man she hated.
Coquettes, and Beaux innumerable, Swarm;
But they (dear Souls!) do very little harm,
Living and Dead the same; the happy Elves
Unrivall'd still love nothing but themselves.
Just as with you, in ten Days after Billing,
Bright Goddess proves a Fury; Swain a Villain.
In every other State we differ far,
'Twere endless to be so particular,
Therefore in gross, 'tis proper you should know,
All Vices are revers'd with us below.
But they (dear Souls!) do very little harm,
Unrivall'd still love nothing but themselves.
Just as with you, in ten Days after Billing,
Bright Goddess proves a Fury; Swain a Villain.
In every other State we differ far,
'Twere endless to be so particular,
Therefore in gross, 'tis proper you should know,
All Vices are revers'd with us below.
Young Heirs are Sharpers there; late Sharpers, Culltes;
Our Soldiers Stock-job, and our Cits are Bullies.
Our Rakes turn Puritans, our Courtiers Quakers,
And Aldermen most furious Cuckold-makers.
Merit's so sure to Thrive in our dark Nation,
And to relieve Distress so much the Fashion,
Ev'n States-Mens Hearts are mov'd by soft Compassion.
Our Priests are humble, and our Lawyers honest,
Our Great Men—pay such Debts—you'd be Astonish'd!
Our Soldiers Stock-job, and our Cits are Bullies.
Our Rakes turn Puritans, our Courtiers Quakers,
And Aldermen most furious Cuckold-makers.
Merit's so sure to Thrive in our dark Nation,
And to relieve Distress so much the Fashion,
Ev'n States-Mens Hearts are mov'd by soft Compassion.
Our Priests are humble, and our Lawyers honest,
Our Great Men—pay such Debts—you'd be Astonish'd!
Poets you'll own much better pass their Time,
For all our Bills of Cash are drawn in Rime;
Each Bard's a Banker there, and Fancy coins
Our Standard Bullion in Immortal Lines:
But since, while here, this Passive Author must
His Muse's Value to your Judgment trust,
If on Poetick Fame too fast he draws,
Pay him at least Subsistance in Applause.
For all our Bills of Cash are drawn in Rime;
Each Bard's a Banker there, and Fancy coins
Our Standard Bullion in Immortal Lines:
But since, while here, this Passive Author must
His Muse's Value to your Judgment trust,
If on Poetick Fame too fast he draws,
Pay him at least Subsistance in Applause.
FINIS.
| The Victim | |