 | Sir Thomas Overbury |  |
186
EPILOGUE.
WRITTEN BY AARON HILL, ESQ.
Well!—'tis a shameful breach, in honour's laws,
To court the credit, and betray the cause!
But, faithful to my sex—Pray ladies! hear me—
And if the poet murmurs, smile, and clear me.
He bids me say, Sir Tom was just—brave—witty!
Troth! he was e'en too good for woman's pity—
I find, by hist'ries of the poor soul's life,
He wrote that frightful poem, call'd—The Wife.
There, with cold rules, he damps the glow of beauty;
And fetters free-born will, by sneaking duty!
His husbands are mere tyrants—and no wonder!—
They've natural right, he says, to keep us under.
Pleas'd—or not pleas'd—we must, it seems, lie quiet:
And rather starve to death than mend our diet!
Prompt, in obedience, wait the sovereign's motion,
And do, or suffer, with resign'd devotion!
'Tis a fine lesson, truly!—Blast Sir Thomas—
Or—keep the galling yoke of wedlock from us!
Cou'd wives but once such passive grace inherit,
Bless us! — what active husbands wou'd they merit!
187
You've seen, to-night, dress'd out in tragic state!
He make a hero!—He attract compassion!
Heaven keep these witty husbands out of fashion!
Had he been mine, I'd paid him for his poem;
And made him feel, what thanks we women owe him!
Though lovers please—and mine is a stark new one,
My feign'd Sir Thomas suffers, for the true one:
Bless'd be the dose, by which our match miscarry'd;
Heavens!—how I'd hated him, had we been marry'd!
As to my errand—Ere your smiles I pray,
Thus make him mend the moral of his play:
Trust not repenting Somerset's opinion,
Nor strive to shake our sex's fix'd dominion.
Woman does, ev'n in yielding, conquest gain;
And man, howe'er contending, toils in vain!
Learn, ye lost things! for disobedience hated,
To what sure suff'rings rash mens lives are fated!
Wisely be rul'd:—move on the way we draw ye—
And let due sense of power superior awe ye—
Else, will your ev'ry woe be still kept waking,
And your proud hearts, waste half an age in breaking:
Care shall corrode your thoughts—Despair invade ye!
Dangers rise round!—and horns want power to shade ye.
| Sir Thomas Overbury | |