Earl Goodwin an historical play |
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EPILOGUE TO THE HISTORICAL PLAY OF EARL GOODWIN.
WRITTEN BY MR. MEYLER.—SPOKEN BY MRS. SMITH. |
 | Earl Goodwin |  |
EPILOGUE TO THE HISTORICAL PLAY OF EARL GOODWIN. WRITTEN BY MR. MEYLER.—SPOKEN BY MRS. SMITH.
Priestcraft, avaunt! avaunt, Rebellion, too!
We've done, thank Heav'n, at present, Sirs, with you;
And, by permission of the good folk here,
Thalia's smile shall chase her sister's tear.
We've done, thank Heav'n, at present, Sirs, with you;
And, by permission of the good folk here,
Thalia's smile shall chase her sister's tear.
What a weak head this pious Edward had!
A monarch, made by priests and friars mad.
What! let an aged mother shoeless trot,
To try her virtues over ploughshares hot!
Hoodwink'd, no friendly hand to lead the way,
Expos'd to crowds amidst the buz of day!
A monarch, made by priests and friars mad.
What! let an aged mother shoeless trot,
To try her virtues over ploughshares hot!
Hoodwink'd, no friendly hand to lead the way,
Expos'd to crowds amidst the buz of day!
Ladies! I'm sure, were we poor modern wives
To prove our chastity o'er burning knives,
'Tis ten to one but many a dame discreet
Would have most woeful blisters on her feet.
To prove our chastity o'er burning knives,
'Tis ten to one but many a dame discreet
Would have most woeful blisters on her feet.
But, thank my stars, that Superstition's train
O'er all the globe is in a rapid wane.
Lo! the poor Frenchman, long our nation's jest,
Feels a new passion throbbing in his breast;
From slavish, tyrant, priestly fetters free,
For Vive le Roi, cries Vive la Liberte!
And, daring now to act, as well as feel,
Crushes the convent and the dread Bastile !
But from the play awhile we turn our eyes,
To where the humble, trembling author lies.
Ye wits! whose best diversion is to tear
Writers or actors when they first appear,
Shall I anticipate the cruel sport,
Which you'll enjoy this ev'ning o'er your port?
O'er all the globe is in a rapid wane.
Lo! the poor Frenchman, long our nation's jest,
Feels a new passion throbbing in his breast;
From slavish, tyrant, priestly fetters free,
For Vive le Roi, cries Vive la Liberte!
And, daring now to act, as well as feel,
Crushes the convent and the dread Bastile !
But from the play awhile we turn our eyes,
To where the humble, trembling author lies.
Ye wits! whose best diversion is to tear
Writers or actors when they first appear,
Shall I anticipate the cruel sport,
Which you'll enjoy this ev'ning o'er your port?
“I've been,” says Jack, “to Orchard-street to-night,
“To see what play this Milky Dame could write.”
Well, and how was it?—“Oh! but so so stuff,
“Yet for a Milk-Maid, 'faith 'twas good enough.”
“Her tragic cows,” cries old Sir Peevish Pest,
“Give milk that curdles vilely in the breast;”
Whilst Biely Simper calls the play—a Quoz!
And swears “'tis merely milk and water-poz!”
Then Cantab, with Stentorian effort, roars,
“How he historic tragedy adores!
“That for her play she chose a glorious theme;
“Had skimm'd the milk, but thrown away the cream.”
To you, ye worthy friends, whose noble minds
“To see what play this Milky Dame could write.”
Well, and how was it?—“Oh! but so so stuff,
“Yet for a Milk-Maid, 'faith 'twas good enough.”
“Her tragic cows,” cries old Sir Peevish Pest,
“Give milk that curdles vilely in the breast;”
Whilst Biely Simper calls the play—a Quoz!
And swears “'tis merely milk and water-poz!”
Then Cantab, with Stentorian effort, roars,
“How he historic tragedy adores!
“That for her play she chose a glorious theme;
“Had skimm'd the milk, but thrown away the cream.”
No rigour sways, no prepossession blinds;
Who now with kind attention hear her lays,
And gave the frequent tribute of your praise;
Her thanks are due; your candour she implor'd,
As she no learning deep had early stor'd,
No rule she knew by Grecian critic taught,
Nor skill could boast, but was from nature caught;
Doom'd, while she wrote, to rear an infant brood,
Attend their cries, and labour for their food;
Thro' toilsome day no leisure she possest,
The Muses snatch'd the moments stolen from rest;
She fear'd this aim had prov'd above her flight,
But your applause turns tremor to delight;
Secure of that, no frowns can now avail,
Nor wanton critic overturn her pail.
FINIS.
| Earl Goodwin | |