 | Timanthes |  |
EPILOGUE. Written by GEORGE COLMAN, Esq; Spoken by Mrs. BULKLEY.
What horrors fill the tragic poet's brain!
Plague, murder, rape, and incest, croud his train;
He pants for miseries, delights in ills,
The blood of fathers, mothers, children, spills;
Stabs, poisons, massacres; and, in his rage,
With daggers, bowls, and carpets, strews the stage.
Plague, murder, rape, and incest, croud his train;
He pants for miseries, delights in ills,
The blood of fathers, mothers, children, spills;
Stabs, poisons, massacres; and, in his rage,
With daggers, bowls, and carpets, strews the stage.
Our gentler poet, in soft opera bred,
Italian crotchets singing in his head,
Winds to a prosp'rous end the fine-drawn tale,
And roars—but roars like any nightingale.—
Italian crotchets singing in his head,
Winds to a prosp'rous end the fine-drawn tale,
And roars—but roars like any nightingale.—
Woman, whate'er she be—maid, widow, wife,
A quiet woman is the charm of life:
And sure Cephisa was a gentle creature,
Full of the milk and honey of good-nature.
Imported for a spouse—by spouse refus'd!
Was ever maid so shamefully abus'd?
And yet, alas, poor prince I I could not blame him—
One wife, I knew, was full enough to tame him.
Ismena, and Timanthes, and Olinthus,
Might all be happy—for I chose Cherinthus.
A quiet woman is the charm of life:
And sure Cephisa was a gentle creature,
Full of the milk and honey of good-nature.
Imported for a spouse—by spouse refus'd!
Was ever maid so shamefully abus'd?
And yet, alas, poor prince I I could not blame him—
One wife, I knew, was full enough to tame him.
Ismena, and Timanthes, and Olinthus,
Might all be happy—for I chose Cherinthus.
But what a barb'rous law was this of Thrace?
How cruel there was each young lady's case!
A virgin, plac'd upon the dreadful roll,
A hapless virgin must have stood the poll,
But by Timanthes made a lucky bride,
Ismena prudently disqualify'd.
How cruel there was each young lady's case!
A virgin, plac'd upon the dreadful roll,
A hapless virgin must have stood the poll,
But by Timanthes made a lucky bride,
Ismena prudently disqualify'd.
Ladies, to you alone our author sues;
'Tis yours to cherish, or condemn his muse.
The theatre's a mirror, and each play
Should be a very looking-glass, they say;
His looking-glass reflects no moles or pimples,
But shews you full of graces, smiles, and dimples.
If you approve yourselves, resolve to spare,
And, critics! then attack him, if ye dare.
'Tis yours to cherish, or condemn his muse.
The theatre's a mirror, and each play
Should be a very looking-glass, they say;
His looking-glass reflects no moles or pimples,
But shews you full of graces, smiles, and dimples.
If you approve yourselves, resolve to spare,
And, critics! then attack him, if ye dare.
FINIS.
| Timanthes | |