Edward The Black Prince ; Or, The Battle of Poictiers An Historical Tragedy |
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EPILOGUE. Spoken by Mrs. Clive.
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 | Edward The Black Prince ; Or, The Battle of Poictiers |  |
72
EPILOGUE. Spoken by Mrs. Clive.
Against
such Odds if Edward could succeed,
Our English Warriors once were great indeed:
But, mournful Thought! we surely must complain,
They're sadly alter'd from King Edward's Reign:
Yet some there are, who merit ev'ry Praise,
Stems of that Stock, and worthy of those Days;
Illustrious Heroes!—How unlike to those,
Whose Valour, like their Wit, lies only in their Clothes?
Such arrant Beaux, so trim, so degagée,
That ev'n French Ladies wou'd not run away.
They'll huff, indeed, and strut, look proud, and swear,
And all this they can do—because they dare.
But know, poor Souls, all this implies no Merit,
Ev'n Women soon discern a Man of Spirit;
Judges alike of Warriors and of Wooers:
The mightiest Talkers, are the poorest Doers.
Such to subdue, requires no martial Fire,
One Joan of Arc wou'd make 'em all retire.
But hold—I wander,—Poictiers be my Story,
And warm my Breast with British Love of Glory;
When each bold Briton took his Country's Part,
And wore her Freedom blazon'd on his Heart
Such were our Sires—But now, O dire Disgrace!
Lo, half their Offspring lost in Silk and Lace.
Our English Warriors once were great indeed:
But, mournful Thought! we surely must complain,
They're sadly alter'd from King Edward's Reign:
Yet some there are, who merit ev'ry Praise,
Stems of that Stock, and worthy of those Days;
Illustrious Heroes!—How unlike to those,
Whose Valour, like their Wit, lies only in their Clothes?
Such arrant Beaux, so trim, so degagée,
That ev'n French Ladies wou'd not run away.
They'll huff, indeed, and strut, look proud, and swear,
And all this they can do—because they dare.
But know, poor Souls, all this implies no Merit,
Ev'n Women soon discern a Man of Spirit;
Judges alike of Warriors and of Wooers:
The mightiest Talkers, are the poorest Doers.
Such to subdue, requires no martial Fire,
One Joan of Arc wou'd make 'em all retire.
But hold—I wander,—Poictiers be my Story,
And warm my Breast with British Love of Glory;
When each bold Briton took his Country's Part,
And wore her Freedom blazon'd on his Heart
Such were our Sires—But now, O dire Disgrace!
Lo, half their Offspring lost in Silk and Lace.
Ye Britons, from this Lethargy arise,
Burst forth from Folly's Bondage, and be wise:
Once more let Virtue, Dignity, be priz'd:
Nor copy what your Ancestors despis'd.
Each false Refinement study to disdain,
And harden into Manhood back again:
So shall our Britain's Honours mount on high,
And future Fields with that of Poictiers vie.
Burst forth from Folly's Bondage, and be wise:
Once more let Virtue, Dignity, be priz'd:
Nor copy what your Ancestors despis'd.
Each false Refinement study to disdain,
And harden into Manhood back again:
So shall our Britain's Honours mount on high,
And future Fields with that of Poictiers vie.
FINIS.
| Edward The Black Prince ; Or, The Battle of Poictiers | |