University of Virginia Library

EPILOGUE.

Such is the force of custom's powerful sway
An Epilogue must finish every play,
But when, or where, or why the mode began,
Tell it some stage read scholar, if he can.
I know enough for me, that 'tis the fashion,
Which governs this, and every other nation.
And yet to try with some poor paltry jest
To chase all tragic feelings from the breast,
Appears to my weak judgment, let me own,
Like filling of the pail, to kick it down.
Nor less absurd than if some beauteous queen
With mantle flowing and majestic mein,
More admiration of her charms to gain
Shou'd chuse a Monkey to bear up her train.
Pray tell would Handel's oratorio's please
If clos'd with Bobbin Joan, or Butter'd Peas?
Yet since the tyrant custom bids us try,
To make you laugh, whom we before made cry,
I wish with all my heart our Proteus poet
Had rhym'd me something merry that would do it.
No matter what, of homely Gills, or Jacks,
Or Beaux with spider legs, and lizard backs.
How the bold spirit of the modern dame
Throned in her car, drives the high road to fame,
While more delight the labour can afford,
To rule four coursers, than obey one lord.
Behold, incumbent o'er her ponies backs,
The sounding lash our female Jehu smacks,
Thro' her small fingers plys her skilful reins,
And cheers the nags with hoarse equestrian strains.
“Gee Rainbow, Peacock, Button, gee along
Then squares her elbows, and confounds the throng
While her soft bosom too robustly feels,
A man like glory from her kindling wheels.
At these perhaps you have sometimes laugh'd before,
Yet faith I wish you'd laugh at them once more.
I'd do my best to oblige you, as I live,
Then in return for once to oblige me strive.
Nor now to modern France can we resort,
Murder and crimes make melancholy sport.
Once, 'twas a happy land for all conditions,
Now, all is assignats and requisitions
Nor does the war with Holland promise much,
For who e'er brought home fancy from the Dutch?
Pepper and cheese they had, let us not wrong 'em,
But scarce one sprig of bays e'er grew among 'em.
The use of language as most travellers tell
They think, was only given to buy and sell,
And when three weighty words, the price is spoke,
Mynheer sinks down again to mum and smoke.
But now 'tis time to drop the mimic art,
And breathe one wish that swells each honest heart.
May Britain's son's with victory by their side
Make Holland shake, and humble Gallia's pride
The God of battle thro' all dangers guard 'em,
And their best meed, a Nation's thanks reward 'em!