 | Cleonice, Princess of Bithynia |  |
EPILOGUE. Spoken by Mrs. Bulkely.
Our
author, all submission, sends me here,
To make excuses for your simple cheer;
And I, that have no interest in his scenes,
Must bear the train of tragic kings and queens.
Shall I support the weakness of his Muse?—
Egad—if so—I'll fit him with abuse—
I'll soon dissect his fine-spun work, and shew
That all his plot has more of farce than woe.
To make excuses for your simple cheer;
And I, that have no interest in his scenes,
Must bear the train of tragic kings and queens.
Shall I support the weakness of his Muse?—
Egad—if so—I'll fit him with abuse—
I'll soon dissect his fine-spun work, and shew
That all his plot has more of farce than woe.
For, after all, the creature's much deceiv'd,
If e'er he thinks his tale can be believ'd.
So tame and so inanimate his maid is—
How very different from our modern ladies!—
What, could a blooming lass with ripen'd charms,
Be held so long from her admirer's arms?—
If such were truths in prudish heathen climes,
Examples vary in our later times—
Then for theatric play—how poor! how cold!
A heroine's language should be nobly bold,
Outstrip the decency of vulgar life,
Mouth at the heavens, and set the gods at strife.—
Time was indeed, an antiquated bard
Paid to a beldame, nature, some regard,
And drew his females with such simple features,
That all, who saw, believ'd them human creatures.
Plain Desdemona bore no trace of art,
And Portia play'd a wife's domestic part;
While Constance shew'd, but what before we knew,
And only griev'd, as real mothers do.—
Shall this stale poet give the drama law,
Who poorly copied only what he saw?
Nay, stole from life, in every clime and age,
The characters that fill his boasted page?—
If e'er he thinks his tale can be believ'd.
So tame and so inanimate his maid is—
How very different from our modern ladies!—
What, could a blooming lass with ripen'd charms,
Be held so long from her admirer's arms?—
If such were truths in prudish heathen climes,
Examples vary in our later times—
Then for theatric play—how poor! how cold!
A heroine's language should be nobly bold,
Outstrip the decency of vulgar life,
Mouth at the heavens, and set the gods at strife.—
80
Paid to a beldame, nature, some regard,
And drew his females with such simple features,
That all, who saw, believ'd them human creatures.
Plain Desdemona bore no trace of art,
And Portia play'd a wife's domestic part;
While Constance shew'd, but what before we knew,
And only griev'd, as real mothers do.—
Shall this stale poet give the drama law,
Who poorly copied only what he saw?
Nay, stole from life, in every clime and age,
The characters that fill his boasted page?—
Well! as I live, 't is he!—(looking out)—O, are you come?
Does all go well?—poor devil!—seal his doom.
This live-long night he watches every eye,
Talks, like his heroes, in soliloquy—
Then starts aside—What! something goes amiss?—
‘Sure 't is the distant murmur of a hiss!—
Alas! kind soul!—I pity his condition,
And will in his behalf this house petition:—
To you, good folks above, for ever ready
To serve a friend, all English hearts and steady;
To you, ye men of candour, sense, and wit,
Who fill the circle of this awful pit;
To you, ye ladies, ever prone to spare
The bard, who love and beauty makes his care;
I here commend him—take him to your favour,
And I'll be surety for his good behaviour.
Does all go well?—poor devil!—seal his doom.
This live-long night he watches every eye,
Talks, like his heroes, in soliloquy—
Then starts aside—What! something goes amiss?—
‘Sure 't is the distant murmur of a hiss!—
Alas! kind soul!—I pity his condition,
And will in his behalf this house petition:—
To you, good folks above, for ever ready
To serve a friend, all English hearts and steady;
To you, ye men of candour, sense, and wit,
Who fill the circle of this awful pit;
To you, ye ladies, ever prone to spare
The bard, who love and beauty makes his care;
I here commend him—take him to your favour,
And I'll be surety for his good behaviour.
| Cleonice, Princess of Bithynia | |