 | Alfred |  |
EPILOGUE. By Mr. GARRICK.
Our bards of late, so tragic in their calling,Have scarce preserv'd one heroine from falling:
Whether the dame be widow, maid, or wife,
She seldom from their hands escapes with life:
If this green cloth could speak, would it not tell,
Upon it's well-worn nap how oft I fell?
To death in various forms deliver'd up,
Steel kills me one night, and the next the Cup:
The tragic process is as short, as certain;
With She makes the motion of stabbing.
this,—or And here of drinking poison.
this, I drop—then drops the curtain:
No saint can lead a better life then I,
For half is spent in study'ng how to die:
The learn'd dispute, how Tragedies should end;
O happily say some—Some death defend:
Mild criticks wish good fortune to the good;
While others hot-brain'd, roar for blood! blood! blood!—
The fair, tho' nervous, tragic to the soul,
Delights in daggers, and the poison'd bowl:
“I would not give a black-pin for a Play,
“Unless in tenderness I melt away:
“From pangs, and death no lovers would I save,
“They should be wretched, and despair and rave;
“And ne'er together lie—but in the grave!”
The brave rough soldier, a soft heart discovers
He swears and weeps at once, when dead the lovers:
As down his cheeks run trickling nature's tide,
“Damn it—I wish those young ones had not dy'd:”
Tho' from his eyes the drop of pity falls,
He fights like Cæsar, when his country calls:
In spite of critic laws, our bard takes part,
And joins in concert with the soldier's heart:
O let your feelings with this party side,
For once forgive me that I have not dy'd;
Too hard that fate, which kills a virgin bride!
| Alfred | |