University of Virginia Library

EPILOGUE.

Spoken by Mrs. CLIVE.
While our grave Hermit, busy above stairs,
Employs his serious head on state affairs,
Gallants, look here—faith I have plaid the rogue,
And stole his wand—by way of epilogue.
You critics, there below, had best be civil:
For I, with this same rod, can play the devil;
Ty all your busy tongues up, one by one,
And turn what share of brains you have—to stone:
The beau's soft scull convert to solid rock—
What then?—the wig will always have it's block,
But for the men of sad and solemn face,
The deep dark sages in or out of place,
Who much in port and politics delight,
Small change, God knows, will make them statues quite.
The ladies too—but now these witlings sneer—
No, fair ones, you shall meet no insult here:
I only hint my power—that, if I list,
I yet can charm you two long hours from whist.
But, cards are ready, you are all bespoke—
To spoil a dozen drums, would be no joke.
Besides, 'twould be mere arbitrary sway:
Such as, of old, was us'd at Nero's play,
Who, when he sung and fiddled to the town,
Still, as his subjects yawn'd, would knock them down.
No, sirs; to gain a heart, we must not teize:
Who would engage it, first should aim to please.
This part be mine: and, if I now succeed
To my own wish, you will be pleas'd indeed.
Then—for a trial: thus, I wave my hand,
To prove the power of this inchanting wand.
On waving her wand,
The scene opens, and discovers a beautiful valley, bordered on each hand by forest trees, rising irregularly, and forming from space to space various groves. The prospect behind is a landschape of woodlands, and of mountains that ascend above one another, till the last seem to lose themselves in the sky. From the summit of the nearest hill a river pours down, by several falls, in a natural cascade. The warbling of birds is heard.
First Entry.
A husbandman, his wife, and family.
She.
How soft is the scene!
The woodlands how green!
What charms in the nightingale's lay!

He.
Fair peace, that now reigns
On our hills and our plains,
'Tis peace bids all nature be gay.

Chorus.
'Tis peace bids all nature be gay.

She.
The distaff,

He.
The plow,

Both.
Shall employ our hands now,
For ourselves and our children alone.

He.
Secure from the foe,
We shall reap what we sow:
And the year, the whole year is our own!

Chorus.
And the year, the whole year is our own.

She waves her wand. Second Entry.
A shepherd, and shepherdess.
They run into each others arms.
She.
If to meet is all this pleasure,
Sure, to part was killing pain!

Both.
Yes, to part was killing pain!

He.
If 'twas grief to lose our treasure,
How transporting to regain!

Both.
O 'tis transport to regain!

He.
Thus possessing—

She.
every blessing
Crowns the maid—

He.
And crowns her swain.

Both.
Crowns the happy maid and swain!

She waves her wand. Third Entry.
Soldiers descend the mountain by two different paths: at the bottom they lay down the spoils with which they are loaded; and then, advancing, two of them sing the following ballad.
First Man.
We have fought; we have conquer'd: and England once more
Shall flourish in fame, as she flourish'd before.
Our fears are all fled, with our enemies slain:
* Could they rise up anew—

Second.
We would slay them again.
His monarch to serve, or to do himself right,
No Englishman yet ever flinch'd from the fight.
For why, neighbours all, we are free as the king:
*'Tis this makes us brave—

First.
And 'tis this makes us sing.
Our prince too, for this, will be thankful to fate—
It is, in our freedom, he finds himself great!
No force can be wanting, nor meaner court-arts:
*He is master of all—

Second.
Who will reign in our hearts!
Should rebels within, or should foes from without,
Bring the crown on his head, or his honor, in doubt;
We are ready—

First.
Still ready—and boldly foretell,
*That conquest shall ever with liberty dwell!

Second.
But now, bring us forth, as the crown of our labor,
Much wine and good chear—

First.
With the pipe and the tabor.
Let our nymphs all be kind, and our shepherds be gay:
For England, Old England, is happy to day.

Chorus.
Let our nymphs all be kind, and our shepherds be gay:
For England, Old England, is happy to day!

They all mix in a dance, to the pipe and tabor.