EPILOGUE. Written by Aaron Hill Esq; Spoken by Miss Robinson, in boys clothes; tripping in hastily.
Oh
! Gentlemen!—I'm come—but was not sent ye:
A voluntier—Pray does my size content ye?
Man, I am yours—Sex!—bless'd, as heaven can make ye,
And from this time, weak Woman! I forsake ye.
Who'd be a wife? when each new Play can teach us,
To what fine ends these Lords of ours beseech us?
At first, whate'er they do, they do—so charming!
But mark what follows; frightful! and alarming!
They feed too fast on Love; then sick'ning tell us,
They can't, forsooth, be kind—because they're jealous.
Who wou'd be woman, then? to sigh—and suffer,
And wish—and wait—for the slow-coming proffer!
Not I—farewel to petticoats, and stitching,
And welcome dear, dear, breeches! more bewitching.
Henceforth, new-moulded, I'll rove, love, and wander,
And fight, and storm—and charm—like Periander.
Born for this dapper age; pert, short, and clever;
If e'er I grow a Man—'tis now, or never.
Well! but what conduct suits this transformation?
I'll copy some smart soul of conversation.
Shou'd there be war, I'd talk of fields and trenches;
Shou'd there be peace—I'd toast ten favourite wenches!
Shou'd I be lov'd—Gadso! how then?—no matter,
I'll bow, as you do—and look foolish at her.
And so, who knows, that never means to prove ye,
But I'm as good a Man, as any of ye!
Well! 'tis a charming frolick—and I'll do't:
Sirs!—have I your consent?—What say ye to't?
Yet hold—Perhaps they'll dread a rival beau:
I may be what I seem, for aught they know.
Ladies! farewel—I shou'd be loth to leave ye,
Cou'd an increase of pretty fellows grieve ye:
Each, like myself, devoted, ne'er to harm ye,
And full as fit, no doubt, to serve and charm ye.
