 | The Battle of Hastings |  |
EPILOGUE. Spoken by Miss YOUNGE.
From
ancient Thespis to the present age
The world hath oft been term'd a public stage,
A thread-bare metaphor, which in its time
Hath patch'd much prose and heel-piec'd many a rhime;
Ev'n the grave pulpit sometimes deigns to use
The emphatic terms of the proscribed Muse,
Calls birth our entry, death our exit calls,
And at life's close exclaims—the curtain falls;
And so concludes upon the drama's plan
That fretting, strutting, short-hour actor, man.
The world hath oft been term'd a public stage,
A thread-bare metaphor, which in its time
Hath patch'd much prose and heel-piec'd many a rhime;
Ev'n the grave pulpit sometimes deigns to use
The emphatic terms of the proscribed Muse,
Calls birth our entry, death our exit calls,
And at life's close exclaims—the curtain falls;
And so concludes upon the drama's plan
That fretting, strutting, short-hour actor, man.
Are we all actors then?—yes, all from Adam,
And actresses?—I apprehend so Madam.
Some fill their cast with grace, others with none,
Some are shov'd off the stage, and some shov'd on;
Some good, some bad, still we all act a part,
Whilst we disguise the language of the heart;
Nature's plain taste provides a simple treat,
But art, the Cook, steps in and mars the meat;
The comic blade makes ridicule his test,
And on his tomb proclaims that life's a jest,
The swaggering braggart, in true tragic cast,
Bellows blank verse and daggers to the last;
Whilst clubs of neutral petit-maitres boast
A kind of opera company at most,
Whose dress, air, action, all is imitation,
A poor, insipid, servile, French translation;
Whose tame dull scene glides uniform along,
In comi—farci—pastoral—sing—song—
'Till all awaken'd by the rattling die
Club wits, and make—a modern tragedy;
A tragedy alas! good friends, look round,
What have we left to tread but tragic ground?
Four authors leagu'd to shake the human soul,
Unsheath the dagger, and infuse the bowl,
At length descending to the least, and last,
We hope the terror of the time is past,
Full sated now with battle, blood, and murder,
England is conquer'd—fate can reach no further,
Bid then the weeping Pleiads dry their eyes,
And turn to happier scenes and brighter skies.
And actresses?—I apprehend so Madam.
Some fill their cast with grace, others with none,
Some are shov'd off the stage, and some shov'd on;
Some good, some bad, still we all act a part,
Whilst we disguise the language of the heart;
Nature's plain taste provides a simple treat,
But art, the Cook, steps in and mars the meat;
The comic blade makes ridicule his test,
And on his tomb proclaims that life's a jest,
The swaggering braggart, in true tragic cast,
Bellows blank verse and daggers to the last;
Whilst clubs of neutral petit-maitres boast
A kind of opera company at most,
Whose dress, air, action, all is imitation,
A poor, insipid, servile, French translation;
Whose tame dull scene glides uniform along,
In comi—farci—pastoral—sing—song—
'Till all awaken'd by the rattling die
Club wits, and make—a modern tragedy;
A tragedy alas! good friends, look round,
What have we left to tread but tragic ground?
Four authors leagu'd to shake the human soul,
Unsheath the dagger, and infuse the bowl,
At length descending to the least, and last,
We hope the terror of the time is past,
Full sated now with battle, blood, and murder,
England is conquer'd—fate can reach no further,
Bid then the weeping Pleiads dry their eyes,
And turn to happier scenes and brighter skies.
| The Battle of Hastings | |