 | Gustavus Vasa, The Deliverer of his Country |  |
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A Tragi-Comic EPILOGUE, By Way of Entertainment. By Mr. OGLE . Intended for Mr. Wright, Mrs. Giffard, and Mrs. Clive.
Mr. Wright.
Well
, Ladies, to the Court, your Plea submit,
Box, Upper-Region, Gallery, and Pit.
Box, Upper-Region, Gallery, and Pit.
Our Poet, trembling for his first Essay,
Fear'd to dismiss you, tho' you sav'd his Play.
Fear'd to dismiss you, tho' you sav'd his Play.
Cry'd Nell (in Pity for the bashful Rogue)
“Give 'em a Joke! a Joke was once in Vogue!
“Thus Authors us'd, in less judicious Times,
“When merry Epilogues were thought no Crimes.
“Give 'em a Joke! a Joke was once in Vogue!
“Thus Authors us'd, in less judicious Times,
“When merry Epilogues were thought no Crimes.
“That (said Cristina) wou'd his Ruin crown;
“Nothing, but Virtue, takes this virtuous Town.
“No! let his Epilogue be clean and chaste.
“This, is the Sense, of ev'ry Man of Taste!—
“Nothing, but Virtue, takes this virtuous Town.
“No! let his Epilogue be clean and chaste.
“This, is the Sense, of ev'ry Man of Taste!—
High rose the Conflict, in our Room of State;
Where Tragic Kings and Queens maintain Debate.
When, lo! we heard,” your Powers began to rise,”
Whose horrid Cat-Call is our worst Excise!
Our inmost Palace felt the loud Dissention;
Where each new Tragedy's a new Convention.
Whence we determin'd without further Pother,
To give you, of the One, and of the Other.
Where Tragic Kings and Queens maintain Debate.
When, lo! we heard,” your Powers began to rise,”
Whose horrid Cat-Call is our worst Excise!
Our inmost Palace felt the loud Dissention;
Where each new Tragedy's a new Convention.
Whence we determin'd without further Pother,
To give you, of the One, and of the Other.
83
Our Author, on the Brave, and Chaste, relies;
He thinks, the Virtuous are the only Wise.
And, if his Muse, with Voice exalted, sings,
Of Camps, and Courts; of Ministers, and Kings;
Yet, be not, to the Great, his Rules confin'd!
His Moral, is, a Lesson to Mankind.
If Virtue, beauteous; Vice, deform'd, He draws;
You, that applaud him, sound your own Applause.
Where Vice, Distaste, where Virtue, gives Delight,
Alike, who judge, or paint, are Just, and Right.
He thinks, the Virtuous are the only Wise.
And, if his Muse, with Voice exalted, sings,
Of Camps, and Courts; of Ministers, and Kings;
Yet, be not, to the Great, his Rules confin'd!
His Moral, is, a Lesson to Mankind.
If Virtue, beauteous; Vice, deform'd, He draws;
You, that applaud him, sound your own Applause.
Where Vice, Distaste, where Virtue, gives Delight,
Alike, who judge, or paint, are Just, and Right.
Virtue, like Vice, escapes the Public Eye,
In Humble Life, yet, blazes in the High.
Hence, Tragedy, that owns no vulgar Flight,
Shines, with the King, in a mild Sphere of Light,
Or vagrant, with the Tyrant, strains to run,
A burning Comet! Not, a cheering Sun!
That Worth, is Worth; be, by Gustavus known:
More glorious, in a Mine, than on a Throne!
And, for Cristina, might I hope a Smile,
Less great, was she, in Empire, than Exile!
In Humble Life, yet, blazes in the High.
Hence, Tragedy, that owns no vulgar Flight,
Shines, with the King, in a mild Sphere of Light,
Or vagrant, with the Tyrant, strains to run,
A burning Comet! Not, a cheering Sun!
That Worth, is Worth; be, by Gustavus known:
More glorious, in a Mine, than on a Throne!
And, for Cristina, might I hope a Smile,
Less great, was she, in Empire, than Exile!
Some Worth, it shows, to aim at worthy Praise.—
Then, wither not, the Plant, that you may raise!
Crush not his Youth? No!—give him Age to spread!
For, we have heard you, rumbling o'er his Head.
Fell a few Flashes, with portentous Blaze,
To blast th' ambitious Branches of his Bays;
Yet, if soft Sorrows stream'd from virtuous Eyes,
If rose, from gen'rous Breasts, regaling Sighs:
Refresh'd, by the Attack, the Laurel stands,
And dares the loudest Thunder—of your Hands.
Then, wither not, the Plant, that you may raise!
Crush not his Youth? No!—give him Age to spread!
For, we have heard you, rumbling o'er his Head.
Fell a few Flashes, with portentous Blaze,
To blast th' ambitious Branches of his Bays;
Yet, if soft Sorrows stream'd from virtuous Eyes,
If rose, from gen'rous Breasts, regaling Sighs:
Refresh'd, by the Attack, the Laurel stands,
And dares the loudest Thunder—of your Hands.
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Great, the Design!—I grant—the Moral, good!
But, 'tis my Weakness, I am Flesh, and Blood.
What Virgin, here, so tender, and so kind,
Wou'd not, her Love, with her own Hands, unbind?
Preliminaries settle in the Dark?
And, tho' she lost her Father, fix her Spark?
Or, when she bade th'Attendant, “Save him! Fly!”
Wou'd She not send, a Billet, By-the-By?
Not Article? 'Tis Nonsense to say. Not!
Had She no Feel, no Guess, of What-is-What?
But, 'tis my Weakness, I am Flesh, and Blood.
What Virgin, here, so tender, and so kind,
Wou'd not, her Love, with her own Hands, unbind?
Preliminaries settle in the Dark?
And, tho' she lost her Father, fix her Spark?
Or, when she bade th'Attendant, “Save him! Fly!”
Wou'd She not send, a Billet, By-the-By?
Not Article? 'Tis Nonsense to say. Not!
Had She no Feel, no Guess, of What-is-What?
At her Expence, the great Gustavus shines;
My Lover, He!—I'd send him to his Mines.—
Arvida falls!—Gustavus wails his End!
And many a Spouse caresses such a Friend.
Well, let him wail his Death; then, rise to Life:
Clasp the fond Maid, too strict to be his Wife!
He held her, in his Camp; might hold, alone:
Compulsion some Humanity had shown.
Thy Countrymen—will Damn Thee—thy third Day—
This, is not, sure, the true Hibernian Way?
My Lover, He!—I'd send him to his Mines.—
Arvida falls!—Gustavus wails his End!
And many a Spouse caresses such a Friend.
Well, let him wail his Death; then, rise to Life:
Clasp the fond Maid, too strict to be his Wife!
He held her, in his Camp; might hold, alone:
Compulsion some Humanity had shown.
Thy Countrymen—will Damn Thee—thy third Day—
This, is not, sure, the true Hibernian Way?
But, I forgive him. He's a young Beginner!
Not quite a Prostitute! And yet, a Sinner!
Forward, to please! Yet awkward, to Delight!
He wants, a kindly Hand to guide him right!
A Novice yet—Instruct him—He will mend—
Full many a Widow wishes such a Friend?
Ev'n marry'd Dames, may think, a greater Curse
The slow Performer, that grows Worse-and-Worse!
This, with a Blush, I say, behind my Fan—
Cherish the Boy, you'll raise him to a Man!
Not quite a Prostitute! And yet, a Sinner!
Forward, to please! Yet awkward, to Delight!
He wants, a kindly Hand to guide him right!
A Novice yet—Instruct him—He will mend—
Full many a Widow wishes such a Friend?
Ev'n marry'd Dames, may think, a greater Curse
The slow Performer, that grows Worse-and-Worse!
This, with a Blush, I say, behind my Fan—
Cherish the Boy, you'll raise him to a Man!
Mr. Wright.
The Cause is heard. Ye Gentle, and ye Brave,
'Tis yours to Damn him—But, you join to save—
85
Ye Sons of Britain, praise, the glorious Swede!
Who, bravely rais'd, and generously releas'd,
From blood-stain'd Tyrant, and perfidious Priest,
The State, and Church; expiring, at a Breath!
Who held, a Life of Slav'ry, worse than Death!
Reform'd Religion! Re-establish'd Law!
—And, that you dare to praise him, hail Nassau!—
FINIS.
| Gustavus Vasa, The Deliverer of his Country | |