University of Virginia Library

Search this document 
Antiochus

A Tragedy
  
  
  
  
  
EPILOGUE.
  

expand section1. 
expand section2. 
expand section3. 
expand section4. 
expand section5. 


xiii

EPILOGUE.

The Curtain falling, Mrs. Seymour comes forward with Mr. Quin and Mr. Egleton.
Mrs. Seymour.
What now! pray hold, there's something more to say,
There ought to be an Epilogue to th'Play.
Are you to speak it, Sir, or Mr. Quin?
The Company expects you should begin:
They look as if they long'd to be dismiss'd;
At least I do, I'm sure, to be undress'd.
Begin—

Mr. Quin.
Begin! who is it you command, I pray?
Methinks you give yourself strange Airs to-day.

Mrs. Seymour.
Ha! Airs! dear Surly, Airs didst thou reply?
Thou art a well-bred Creature, let me die:
Have you a mind to sink the Play? why do it,
I care not that [snapping her Fingers]
d'you see, I'm not the Poet.



xiv

Mr. Quin.
No, thank our Stars, tho' we have many a Bard,
There's not one Female Scribbler in the Herd.

Mrs. Seymour.
My Sex traduc'd, had I a Sword to draw,
I'd prove Apollo made no Salique Law.

Mr. Egleton.
Come, this is nothing to the Play, I take it;
The Epilogue—pray, Madam, will you speak it?

Mrs. Seymour.
Why, what have I with th'Epilogue to do?

Mr. Egleton.
The Poet told me, that he gave it you.

Mrs. Seymour.
Me! Lord! I've lost it then, I vow and swear.
Bless me! where could I put it?—Oh! 'tis here;
But hang me, if one single Word I know:
Dear, Mr. Thingum, will you prompt me? do.
Hold, how do I begin? Oh! the old Way:
Ladies, to you our Author trusts his Play:
He hopes the Conduct of the Scenes just past
Gives no Offence to your judicious Taste:
By aged Beaux they mayn't be much approv'd,
They think they're ne'er too old to be belov'd;
But we know sure, what suits our Palates best,
To look for Spring in Autumn is a Jest:
Give me a Youth of Twenty when I wed,
I hate Memento Mori in my Bed.
Our Heroine, you see, preferr'd the Prince,
In that you needs must own, she shew'd her Sense.

xv

The King had Honours in his Gift, and Gold,
The King was Lord of all—but he was old:
But then when all was rug—the duce was in it,
She dy'd, and lost the dear, the lucky Minute;
Poor foolish Girl, thus only to miscarry,
Because the Man she lov'd she could not—marry:
Had she been English, she'd have learnt the Art
To gratify her Pride—yet ease her Heart.