 | Cymbeline |  |
EPILOGUE
Spoken by Mrs. Vincent.
Well
, Sirs—the bus'ness of the day is o'er,
And I'm a princess, and a wife no more—
This bard of our's, with Shakespear in his head,
May be well-taught, but surely is ill-bred.
Spouse gone, coast clear, wife handsome, and what not,
We might have had a much genteeler plot.
What madness equals true poetic rage?
Fine stuff! a lady in a hermitage!
A pretty mansion for the blooming fair—
No tea, no scandal,—no intriguing there.—
—The gay beau-monde such hideous scenes must damn—
What! nothing modish, but one cordial dram!
—Yet after all, the poet bids me say,
For your own credit's sake approve the play;
You can't for shame condemn old British wit,
(I hope there are no Frenchmen in the pit)
Or slight a timely tale, that well discovers,
The bravest soldiers are the truest lovers.
And I'm a princess, and a wife no more—
This bard of our's, with Shakespear in his head,
May be well-taught, but surely is ill-bred.
Spouse gone, coast clear, wife handsome, and what not,
We might have had a much genteeler plot.
What madness equals true poetic rage?
Fine stuff! a lady in a hermitage!
A pretty mansion for the blooming fair—
No tea, no scandal,—no intriguing there.—
xi
What! nothing modish, but one cordial dram!
—Yet after all, the poet bids me say,
For your own credit's sake approve the play;
You can't for shame condemn old British wit,
(I hope there are no Frenchmen in the pit)
Or slight a timely tale, that well discovers,
The bravest soldiers are the truest lovers.
Such Leonatus was, in our romance,
A gallant courtier, tho' he cou'd not dance;
Say, wou'd you gain, like him, the fair one's charms,
First try your might in hardy deeds of arms;
Your muffs, your coffee, and down-beds fore-go,
Follow the mighty Prussia thro' the snow;
At length bring home the honourable scar,
And love's sweet balm shall heal the wounds of war.
A gallant courtier, tho' he cou'd not dance;
Say, wou'd you gain, like him, the fair one's charms,
First try your might in hardy deeds of arms;
Your muffs, your coffee, and down-beds fore-go,
Follow the mighty Prussia thro' the snow;
At length bring home the honourable scar,
And love's sweet balm shall heal the wounds of war.
For me, what various thoughts my mind perplex?
Is't better I resume my feeble sex,
Or wear this manly garb? it fits me well—
Gallants instruct me—ladies, can you tell?
The court's divided, and the gentle beaux,
Cry—no disguises—give the girl her cloaths,
The ladies say, to-night's example teaches,
(And I will take their words without more speeches)
That things go best when—women wear the breeches.
Is't better I resume my feeble sex,
Or wear this manly garb? it fits me well—
Gallants instruct me—ladies, can you tell?
The court's divided, and the gentle beaux,
Cry—no disguises—give the girl her cloaths,
The ladies say, to-night's example teaches,
(And I will take their words without more speeches)
That things go best when—women wear the breeches.
| Cymbeline | |