 | Eugenia |  |
EPILOGUE. Written by Colley Cibber, Esq; Spoken by Mrs. Pritchard.
Of
all the various Wonders Wit can do,
(Whether to please the Many, or the Few)
None charms an Audience—like a Stroke, that's new.
Now this choice Secret found, I dare engage,
Has brought our solemn Champion to the Stage,
As if, to reach this Merit, were no more,
Than just to write—as none e'er wrote before.
(Whether to please the Many, or the Few)
None charms an Audience—like a Stroke, that's new.
Now this choice Secret found, I dare engage,
Has brought our solemn Champion to the Stage,
As if, to reach this Merit, were no more,
Than just to write—as none e'er wrote before.
Why here's a Play now—of what Kind to call it
I know no more than—of what will befal it—
Whether the Critics Praise—or bolder Bucks shall maul it;
In France 'twas Comedy; but here 'tis Tragic!
And all by dint of pure poetic Magic—
Mistake me not, I don't by this aver,
That ev'ry Poet is a Conjurer;
Ours is all Sentiment, blank Verse, and Virtue,
Distress—But yet no Bloodshed to divert ye.
Such Plays in France perhaps may cut a Figure;
But to our Critics here they're mere Soup-meagre;
Tho' there they never stain their Stage with Blood;
Yet English Stomachs love substantial Food.
Give us! the Lightning's Blaze, the Thunder's Roll!
The pointed Dagger, and the pois'ning Bowl!
Let Drums and Trumpets Clangor swell the Scene,
Till the gor'd Battle bleed in ev'ry Vein.
We love the Muses animating Spark,
Till Gods meet Gods and justle in the Dark!
This now did something in the Days of Yore,
When Lungs heroic made the Galleries roar.
As for our Bard, the fatal Die is thrown,
I know no more than—of what will befal it—
Whether the Critics Praise—or bolder Bucks shall maul it;
In France 'twas Comedy; but here 'tis Tragic!
And all by dint of pure poetic Magic—
Mistake me not, I don't by this aver,
That ev'ry Poet is a Conjurer;
Ours is all Sentiment, blank Verse, and Virtue,
Distress—But yet no Bloodshed to divert ye.
Such Plays in France perhaps may cut a Figure;
But to our Critics here they're mere Soup-meagre;
Tho' there they never stain their Stage with Blood;
Yet English Stomachs love substantial Food.
Give us! the Lightning's Blaze, the Thunder's Roll!
The pointed Dagger, and the pois'ning Bowl!
Let Drums and Trumpets Clangor swell the Scene,
Till the gor'd Battle bleed in ev'ry Vein.
We love the Muses animating Spark,
Till Gods meet Gods and justle in the Dark!
This now did something in the Days of Yore,
When Lungs heroic made the Galleries roar.
And now the Question is—What says the Town,
Has he thrown in, or is the Dupe undone?
Yet on your Justice boldly he relied,
No Party form'd, no partial Friendship tried.
Tho' Love of Praise his inmost Soul inflame,
All feign'd, or forc'd Applause he dares disclaim,
Your Candour—no—Your Judgment be his Fame.
| Eugenia | |