 | The Grecian Daughter |  |
EPILOGUE.
Written by a FRIEND, And spoken by Miss YOUNGE.
The Grecian Daughter's compliments to all;
Begs that for Epilogue you will not call;
For leering, giggling would be out of season,
And hopes by me you'll hear a little reason.
Begs that for Epilogue you will not call;
For leering, giggling would be out of season,
And hopes by me you'll hear a little reason.
A father rais'd from death, a nation sav'd,
A tyrant's crimes by female spirit brav'd,
That tyrant stabb'd, and by her nerveless arm,
While Virtue's spell surrounding guards could charm!
Can she, this sacred tumult in her breast,
Turn Father, Freedom, Virtue, all to jest?
Wake you, ye fair ones, from your sweet repose,
As wanton zephyrs wake the sleeping rose;
Dispel those clouds, which o'er your eyelids crept,
Which our wise Bard mistook, and swore you wept.
Shall she to MACARONIES life restore,
Who yawn'd, half dead, and curs'd the tragic BORE?
Dismiss 'em, smirking, to their nightly haunt,
Where dice and cards their moon-struck minds enchant!
Some muffled, like the witches in Macbeth,
Brood o'er the magic circle, pale as death!
Others, the cauldron go about—about—
And Ruin enters, as the Fates run out!
Bubble, bubble,
Toil and trouble,
Passions burn,
And bets are double!
Double! double!
Toil and trouble,
Passions burn,
And all is bubble!
A tyrant's crimes by female spirit brav'd,
That tyrant stabb'd, and by her nerveless arm,
While Virtue's spell surrounding guards could charm!
Can she, this sacred tumult in her breast,
Turn Father, Freedom, Virtue, all to jest?
5
As wanton zephyrs wake the sleeping rose;
Dispel those clouds, which o'er your eyelids crept,
Which our wise Bard mistook, and swore you wept.
Shall she to MACARONIES life restore,
Who yawn'd, half dead, and curs'd the tragic BORE?
Dismiss 'em, smirking, to their nightly haunt,
Where dice and cards their moon-struck minds enchant!
Some muffled, like the witches in Macbeth,
Brood o'er the magic circle, pale as death!
Others, the cauldron go about—about—
And Ruin enters, as the Fates run out!
Bubble, bubble,
Toil and trouble,
Passions burn,
And bets are double!
Double! double!
Toil and trouble,
Passions burn,
And all is bubble!
But jests apart, for scandal forms these tales,
Falsehood be mute—let Justice hold her scales:
Britons were ne'er enslav'd by evil pow'rs;
To peace, and wedded love, they give their midnight hours;
From slumbers pure, no rattling dice can wake 'em!
Who make the laws, were never known to break 'em.
'Tis false, ye fair, whatever spleen may say,
That you down Folly's tide are borne away;
You never wish at deep distress to sneer;
For eyes, tho' bright, are brighter thro' a tear.
Falsehood be mute—let Justice hold her scales:
Britons were ne'er enslav'd by evil pow'rs;
To peace, and wedded love, they give their midnight hours;
From slumbers pure, no rattling dice can wake 'em!
Who make the laws, were never known to break 'em.
'Tis false, ye fair, whatever spleen may say,
That you down Folly's tide are borne away;
You never wish at deep distress to sneer;
For eyes, tho' bright, are brighter thro' a tear.
Should it e'er be this Nation's wretched fate
To laugh at all that's good, and wise, and great;
Arm'd at all points, let Genius take the field,
And on the stage afflicted Virtue shield,
Drive from the land each base unworthy passion,
Till Virtue triumph in despite of Fashion.
To laugh at all that's good, and wise, and great;
Arm'd at all points, let Genius take the field,
And on the stage afflicted Virtue shield,
Drive from the land each base unworthy passion,
Till Virtue triumph in despite of Fashion.
| The Grecian Daughter | |