 | The Carmelite |  |
EPILOGUE By the AUTHOR. Spoken by Mrs. SIDDONS.
Ladies
, we now have shewn a faithful wife,
And trust our scene prevails in real life;
We hope that nuptial truth's your reigning passion,
If not—why let the stage begin the fashion:
'Tis ours to paint you innocent and true;
To be what we describe depends on you.—
Two tragic masters grac'd th'Athenian stage,
One sketch'd with candour, t'other dash'd with rage:
Old Sophocles's dames were heavenly creatures,
His rival drew them all in fury features;
Both err'd, perhaps.—The milder urg'd this plea,
“I paint my women as they ought to be:”
The angry bard, relentless to the Fair,
Sternly replied, “I paint mine as they are.”
And trust our scene prevails in real life;
We hope that nuptial truth's your reigning passion,
If not—why let the stage begin the fashion:
'Tis ours to paint you innocent and true;
To be what we describe depends on you.—
Two tragic masters grac'd th'Athenian stage,
One sketch'd with candour, t'other dash'd with rage:
Old Sophocles's dames were heavenly creatures,
His rival drew them all in fury features;
Both err'd, perhaps.—The milder urg'd this plea,
“I paint my women as they ought to be:”
The angry bard, relentless to the Fair,
Sternly replied, “I paint mine as they are.”
Our Author (pardon if he brings his name
Too near to these of an immortal fame)
At humble distance takes the milder plan,
Less proud to be a poet than a man:
Scorns first to forge and then enforce a crime,
Or polish libels into truth by rhyme.
If you have faults, alas! he bids me say,
Oh! that his wish cou'd charm them all away!
For if no cure but caustics can be found,
He will not make a sore to heal a wound;
If you have faults, they're faults he won't discover,
To your own sex he begs to bind you over.
So many ladies now there are who write,
You'll hear of all your trips some winter's night:
Since Pegasus has learn'd the jadish trick
To hear a side-saddle, you'll find him kick.
Too near to these of an immortal fame)
At humble distance takes the milder plan,
Less proud to be a poet than a man:
Scorns first to forge and then enforce a crime,
Or polish libels into truth by rhyme.
If you have faults, alas! he bids me say,
Oh! that his wish cou'd charm them all away!
For if no cure but caustics can be found,
He will not make a sore to heal a wound;
If you have faults, they're faults he won't discover,
To your own sex he begs to bind you over.
So many ladies now there are who write,
You'll hear of all your trips some winter's night:
Since Pegasus has learn'd the jadish trick
To hear a side-saddle, you'll find him kick.
But let no satyrist touch my lips with gall,
Lips from which none but grateful words shall fall.
Can I forget?—But I must here be dumb,
So vast my debt. I cannot count the sum;
Words would but fail me, and I claim no art,
I boast no eloquence—but of the heart.
Lips from which none but grateful words shall fall.
Can I forget?—But I must here be dumb,
So vast my debt. I cannot count the sum;
Words would but fail me, and I claim no art,
I boast no eloquence—but of the heart.
| The Carmelite | |