 | The tragedy of Sophonisba |  |
EPILOGUE. By a Friend. Spoken by Mrs. CIBBER.
Now
, I'm afraid, the modest taste in vogue
Demands a strong, high-season'd epilogue.
Else might some silly soul take pity's part,
And odious virtue sink into the heart.
Demands a strong, high-season'd epilogue.
Else might some silly soul take pity's part,
And odious virtue sink into the heart.
Our squeamish author scruples this proceeding;
He says it hurts sound morals, and good breeding:
Nor Sophonisba would he here produce,
A glaring model, of no private use.
Ladies, he bid me say, behold your Cato.
What tho' no Stoic she, nor read in Plato?
Yet sure she offer'd, for her country's sake,
A sacrifice, which Cato could not make—
—Already, now, these wicked men are sneering,
Some wresting what one says, and others leering.
I vow they have not strength for—public spirit.
That, ladies, must be your superior merit.
He says it hurts sound morals, and good breeding:
Nor Sophonisba would he here produce,
A glaring model, of no private use.
Ladies, he bid me say, behold your Cato.
What tho' no Stoic she, nor read in Plato?
Yet sure she offer'd, for her country's sake,
A sacrifice, which Cato could not make—
—Already, now, these wicked men are sneering,
Some wresting what one says, and others leering.
I vow they have not strength for—public spirit.
That, ladies, must be your superior merit.
Mercy forbid! we should lay down our lives;
Like these old, Punic, barbarous, heathen wives.
Spare christian blood.—But sure the devil's in her,
Who for her country would not lose a pinner.
—Lard! how could such a creature shew her face?
How?—Just as you do there?—thro' Brussels Lace.
The Roman fair, the public in distress,
Gave up the dearest ornaments of dress.
How much more cheaply might you gain applause?
—One yard of Ribban, and two ells of Gause.
And Gause each deep-read critic must adore;
Your Roman ladies dress'd in Gause all o'er.
Should you, fair patriots, come to dress so thin;
How clear might all your—sentiments be seen.
To foreign looms no longer owe your charms;
Nor make their trade more fatal than their arms.
Each British dame, who courts her country's praise,
By quitting these outlandish modes, might raise
(Not from yon powder'd band, so thin, and spruce)
Ten able-bodied men, for—public use.
But now a serious word about the play.—
Like these old, Punic, barbarous, heathen wives.
Spare christian blood.—But sure the devil's in her,
Who for her country would not lose a pinner.
—Lard! how could such a creature shew her face?
How?—Just as you do there?—thro' Brussels Lace.
The Roman fair, the public in distress,
Gave up the dearest ornaments of dress.
—One yard of Ribban, and two ells of Gause.
And Gause each deep-read critic must adore;
Your Roman ladies dress'd in Gause all o'er.
Should you, fair patriots, come to dress so thin;
How clear might all your—sentiments be seen.
To foreign looms no longer owe your charms;
Nor make their trade more fatal than their arms.
Each British dame, who courts her country's praise,
By quitting these outlandish modes, might raise
(Not from yon powder'd band, so thin, and spruce)
Ten able-bodied men, for—public use.
Auspicious smile on this his first essay,
Ye generous Britons! your own sons inspire;
Let your applauses fan their native fire.
Then other Shakespears yet may rouze the stage,
And other Otways melt another age.
FINIS.
| The tragedy of Sophonisba | |