 | Edward and Eleonora |  |
EPILOGUE. By a Friend.
These
Poets are such Fools!—The Man behind,
Who wrote this Play—a simple Soul, I find,—
Believes, with all his Heart, there was a Wife,
Who needs would die—to save a Husband's Life!
He in the printed Chronicles has read it:
And true it is—Sir Richard Baker said it.
Who wrote this Play—a simple Soul, I find,—
Believes, with all his Heart, there was a Wife,
Who needs would die—to save a Husband's Life!
He in the printed Chronicles has read it:
And true it is—Sir Richard Baker said it.
Why what an Ass these Books do make a Man?
Read Nature—then believe it—you who can.
Look round this Town—the question is not—whether
Spouse dies for Spouse: but who will live together?
Of old, they say, a Husband was a Lover:
But, thank our Stars! these foolish Days are over:
To such substantial Prudence are we come,
We wed not Heart to Heart—but Plumb to Plumb.
What Sense? what Beauty? are not now the Things:
But can he settle—up to what she brings?
Read Nature—then believe it—you who can.
Look round this Town—the question is not—whether
Spouse dies for Spouse: but who will live together?
Of old, they say, a Husband was a Lover:
But, thank our Stars! these foolish Days are over:
To such substantial Prudence are we come,
We wed not Heart to Heart—but Plumb to Plumb.
What Sense? what Beauty? are not now the Things:
But can he settle—up to what she brings?
Yet in this easy, all-forgiving Age,
Bear with such moral Fooleries—on the Stage.
Perhaps too, there may be some gentle Soul,
Who rather likes to weep—than win a Vole;
Who thinks that there are Charms in generous Love,
And would to Edward Eleonora prove.
Bear with such moral Fooleries—on the Stage.
Perhaps too, there may be some gentle Soul,
Who rather likes to weep—than win a Vole;
Who thinks that there are Charms in generous Love,
And would to Edward Eleonora prove.
| Edward and Eleonora | |