 | Love in a Forest |  |
EPILOGUE.
Spoken by Mrs. Thurmond.
Believe
me, Sirs, there are but very few
Wou'd fight, or write, did they know what they do;
For Wits, and Bullies are not on Record,
As Fools, and Cowards, till they draw the Sword:
Yet both pursue an empty Sound, a Name,
And bleed, and are ridiculous for Fame.
Tho' well, tho' certainly they know that none
Enjoy this Phantom, till they're dead and gone;
A Trumpet on a Tomb-stone sounds but queint,
And tho' the Notes are mellow, they are faint.
Wou'd fight, or write, did they know what they do;
For Wits, and Bullies are not on Record,
As Fools, and Cowards, till they draw the Sword:
Yet both pursue an empty Sound, a Name,
And bleed, and are ridiculous for Fame.
Tho' well, tho' certainly they know that none
Enjoy this Phantom, till they're dead and gone;
A Trumpet on a Tomb-stone sounds but queint,
And tho' the Notes are mellow, they are faint.
I don't well understand our Rhiming Blade,
Wherefore must Love be in a Forest made?
In Courts, indeed, he plumes his Purple Wings;
But Cottages are cold, and lifeless Things.
In the gay Town from Joy, to Joy we rove,
The Charms of dear Variety to prove;
Assemblies, Musick, Masquerades, and Plays,
Relieve the weary'd Mind a thousand Ways.
Wherefore must Love be in a Forest made?
In Courts, indeed, he plumes his Purple Wings;
But Cottages are cold, and lifeless Things.
In the gay Town from Joy, to Joy we rove,
The Charms of dear Variety to prove;
Assemblies, Musick, Masquerades, and Plays,
Relieve the weary'd Mind a thousand Ways.
Tell us, ye Fair, are Fields, and Trees, and Daws,
A Sight to be prefer'd to Bells and Beaus?
Behold there Country Spouse, and Rural 'Squire,
In a long Winter's Night by Log-wood Fire,
Dirty and dull;—to every Pleasure lost,
The Fair wou'd fain forget she was a Toast:
In her white Arms now snores a hunting Warrior
Till wak'd by Horns to follow Fox with Terrier:
They eat, they sleep, they like their Trees decay,
Grow old, and bald, and Vegetate away.
A Sight to be prefer'd to Bells and Beaus?
Behold there Country Spouse, and Rural 'Squire,
In a long Winter's Night by Log-wood Fire,
Dirty and dull;—to every Pleasure lost,
The Fair wou'd fain forget she was a Toast:
In her white Arms now snores a hunting Warrior
Till wak'd by Horns to follow Fox with Terrier:
They eat, they sleep, they like their Trees decay,
Grow old, and bald, and Vegetate away.
Give us, who wake, Joys to dull Souls unknown,
The circulating Pleasures of the Town;
I mean those Pleasures that befit a Mind,
By regular and virtuous Laws refind;
Such may the Stage continue still to give,
May such alone your just Applause receive;
Pass then the Failures of our Writer's Pen,
And pardon what you find a guiltless Scene.
As here by reasonable Joys you're mov'd,
Be this, your noblest Pleasure, best approv'd.
The circulating Pleasures of the Town;
I mean those Pleasures that befit a Mind,
By regular and virtuous Laws refind;
Such may the Stage continue still to give,
May such alone your just Applause receive;
Pass then the Failures of our Writer's Pen,
And pardon what you find a guiltless Scene.
As here by reasonable Joys you're mov'd,
Be this, your noblest Pleasure, best approv'd.
| Love in a Forest | |