 | The Triumphs of Love and Honour |  |
40
THE EPILOGUE, Spoke by Mrs Charke.
This
Prince of Rhodes, methinks, did not discover
The genuine Tokens of a perfect Lover;
He seems to me much of the dangling Kind,
Such often as at Court, and— here we find.
The Dangler is that Species of the Beaus
Whose Commendation most is in his Cloaths,
Who, of a Lover to obtain the Fame,
First on a publick Whisper builds his Name,
And, when he 'as dangled thro a tedious Year,
Gets full Possession—of the Lady's Ear;
He aims no farther; for a close Caress
Wou'd chafe his Skin, and discompose his Dress:
He never will, poor Thing, himself betray,
Like Lady Grace, who once was hear'd to say
The Pettycoat is an improper Place
For Bugles: why? Because they scratch'd her Face:
A Dangler is—in short, he is a No—man,
That loves himself too well to love a Woman.
The genuine Tokens of a perfect Lover;
He seems to me much of the dangling Kind,
Such often as at Court, and— here we find.
The Dangler is that Species of the Beaus
Whose Commendation most is in his Cloaths,
Who, of a Lover to obtain the Fame,
First on a publick Whisper builds his Name,
And, when he 'as dangled thro a tedious Year,
Gets full Possession—of the Lady's Ear;
He aims no farther; for a close Caress
Wou'd chafe his Skin, and discompose his Dress:
He never will, poor Thing, himself betray,
Like Lady Grace, who once was hear'd to say
The Pettycoat is an improper Place
For Bugles: why? Because they scratch'd her Face:
A Dangler is—in short, he is a No—man,
That loves himself too well to love a Woman.
Give me the Man, (say, Ladys, am I right?)
Who, rather than resign the Maid, wou'd fight,
Who wou'd, with Sword in Hand, the Fort invade,
And shew the Virtues of a—pushing Blade:
But hold: what can I of our Princess say,
Who seems to love out of the modern Way?
She might, to please her Sire, and end all Strife,
Have yielded to be made the Prince's Wife;
Then of two Arrows to her Bow secure,
She shou'd have us'd that most that shot most sure,
And might have, when catch'd tripping in her Game,
On her hard-hearted Father lay'd the Blame.
Who, rather than resign the Maid, wou'd fight,
41
And shew the Virtues of a—pushing Blade:
But hold: what can I of our Princess say,
Who seems to love out of the modern Way?
She might, to please her Sire, and end all Strife,
Have yielded to be made the Prince's Wife;
Then of two Arrows to her Bow secure,
She shou'd have us'd that most that shot most sure,
And might have, when catch'd tripping in her Game,
On her hard-hearted Father lay'd the Blame.
Our Poet says, perhaps more nice than wise,
Such Objects are unfit for virgin Eyes;
He, by Example, rather chose to prove
That they are happyest who with Honour love.
Such Objects are unfit for virgin Eyes;
He, by Example, rather chose to prove
That they are happyest who with Honour love.
The END.
| The Triumphs of Love and Honour | |