 | The Imperial Captives |  |
xiii
EPILOGUE; Spoken by Miss Stone.
By Mr. Christopher Bullock.
Our
Author just now whisper'd in my Ear,
My Play and I are surely damn'd, my Dear,
Unless, my Charmer, you will now engage,
And save me from the dreadful Criticks Rage;
By Way of Epilogue, beg they'd excuse
The first Attempt of my unskilful Muse.
My Play and I are surely damn'd, my Dear,
Unless, my Charmer, you will now engage,
And save me from the dreadful Criticks Rage;
By Way of Epilogue, beg they'd excuse
The first Attempt of my unskilful Muse.
I strait comply'd; and ev'n without more urging
Swore that I would succeed—or die a Virgin.
Now, what a Story would that be to tell!
Did Play-house Damsel e'er lead Apes in Hell?
What, die a Maid! and in this loving City,
You cruel Fellows, would it not be pity?
Now when my Charms might captivate a Nation,
Now when I'm just arriv'd to—Speculation!
Be forc'd to hear my Lovers sigh in vain,
Have Pow'r to wish, but not assuage their Pain?
My Youth and Beauty sicken with the Spleen!
Just in the wishing Crisis of Fifteen!
Pray spare our Poet—Come,—you must be good:
Pity my Case,—I'm Play-house Flesh and Blood.
My Oath was rash,—but since I chanc'd to take it,
Nor Beau, nor Critick e'er shall make me break it.
Therefore you Monsters, that make Girls afraid,
Who ev'ry Morning must devour a Maid,
You Men of Sense, and you sweet-scented Beaux,
To you who Charm with Wit, and you with Clothes,
To all I speak, that ever hope to find
I to their Wishes may not prove unkind,
Must to our Author's Faults be very—very blind.
Swore that I would succeed—or die a Virgin.
Now, what a Story would that be to tell!
Did Play-house Damsel e'er lead Apes in Hell?
What, die a Maid! and in this loving City,
You cruel Fellows, would it not be pity?
Now when my Charms might captivate a Nation,
Now when I'm just arriv'd to—Speculation!
xiv
Have Pow'r to wish, but not assuage their Pain?
My Youth and Beauty sicken with the Spleen!
Just in the wishing Crisis of Fifteen!
Pray spare our Poet—Come,—you must be good:
Pity my Case,—I'm Play-house Flesh and Blood.
My Oath was rash,—but since I chanc'd to take it,
Nor Beau, nor Critick e'er shall make me break it.
Therefore you Monsters, that make Girls afraid,
Who ev'ry Morning must devour a Maid,
You Men of Sense, and you sweet-scented Beaux,
To you who Charm with Wit, and you with Clothes,
To all I speak, that ever hope to find
I to their Wishes may not prove unkind,
Must to our Author's Faults be very—very blind.
| The Imperial Captives | |