 | Cyrus |  |
EPILOGUE.
Written by a FRIEND.
Spoken by Mrs. YATES.
Well, here I am—thank heaven! no more Mandane—
Among ourselves this bard is but a Zany.
Says I—when first he offer'd me the part,
I hope 'tis nature—levell'd at the heart!
Says he—a husband thought far off to roam,
Disguis'd, and unexpectedly comes home.
A son returns, lost twenty years, dy'e see,
To call you mother, tho' not thirty-three.
This (I reply'd) will do, if I can guess,
For this indeed is natural distress—
Distress! (he cry'd) you quite mistake the thing;
Astyages you'll find—had dreamt—the king—
I stop'd him short—perhaps it may be true,
That your old nature differs from your new.
From various causes equal sorrows flow,
All realms and times have some peculiar woe:
With us what griefs from ills domestic rise,
When now a beau—and now a monkey dies!
In this our iron age, still harder lot,
A masquerade, no ticket to be got—
Your obsolete distress may now be told—
Let's see—there's ravishing—that's very old.
There's love that scorn'd a title and estate—
These woes of love are vastly out of date!
Then there's your martyr to his country's weal—
What strange distress these ancients us'd to feel!
The love of country now indeed runs high;
They prove its value most, who dearest buy;
Think what our patriots pay in sterling gold,
A single borough for seven years to hold.
Tho' here in statu quo I still remain,
I've oft been married, ravish'd, crown'd and slain!
None of all these have been my fate to-night,
So us'd to fancy'd anguish and delight;
Yet let me hope you felt the part I bore,
Give me your plaudit—we can wish no more.
FINIS.
| Cyrus | |