 | Constantine |  |
EPILOGUE. Spoken by Miss BELLAMY.
Well!
you expect—so says the Taste in Vogue—
To these sad Scenes a laughing Epilogue!
But I'm untaught in every comic Grace,
Wit's bolder Mirth, or Humour's various Face;
Nor shall I dare, with your lov'd, mimic, Art,
Take off the Cit—the Beau—the Blood—the Smart.
Shall I the dear Coquet's sweet Trifling try?
Pish—as I live—be quiet—let me die—
Then, melt a Look—deliciously explaining
The double—no, good Faith! the single Meaning.
To these sad Scenes a laughing Epilogue!
But I'm untaught in every comic Grace,
Wit's bolder Mirth, or Humour's various Face;
Nor shall I dare, with your lov'd, mimic, Art,
Take off the Cit—the Beau—the Blood—the Smart.
Shall I the dear Coquet's sweet Trifling try?
Pish—as I live—be quiet—let me die—
Then, melt a Look—deliciously explaining
The double—no, good Faith! the single Meaning.
As for our Play—methinks, this tragic Plot
Might furnish precious Hints, for you know what—
To leave an Empress—tho' so wondrous chaste—
With a young Lover—two full Hours at least—
In our frail Times, this dangerous tete a tete—
In the first Act—had made the Play complete.
Might furnish precious Hints, for you know what—
To leave an Empress—tho' so wondrous chaste—
With a young Lover—two full Hours at least—
In our frail Times, this dangerous tete a tete—
In the first Act—had made the Play complete.
And then the Moral—ye, whose happy Lives
Are bless'd with rare Discretion—in your Wives;
When Trifles—light as Air—shall turn your Heads,
Ah! shun that naughty Trick—of separate Beds,
Besides the midnight—reconciling Billing,
Ah! think, how near was Constantine to killing.
But hush our Bard—
If should he hear us laughing, wont he say,
Your flippant Mirth,—good Ma'am—may damn my Play.
Then for my Sake—but I'm in such a Fright—
Well—I'll give out the Play—for Monday Night.
Are bless'd with rare Discretion—in your Wives;
When Trifles—light as Air—shall turn your Heads,
Ah! shun that naughty Trick—of separate Beds,
Besides the midnight—reconciling Billing,
Ah! think, how near was Constantine to killing.
But hush our Bard—
If should he hear us laughing, wont he say,
Your flippant Mirth,—good Ma'am—may damn my Play.
Then for my Sake—but I'm in such a Fright—
Well—I'll give out the Play—for Monday Night.
| Constantine | |