 | The Prophetess : or, the History of Dioclesian |  |
75
EPILOGUE.
You
see what Charge we're at, What hazards run,
What mighty pains we take to be undone.
Is't not enough, you study our undoing,
But we must be contriving our own ruine;
To stop the Breaches a Rebellion made,
We wisely sent for Irish to our aid;
Who, would not swear we have the same pretence
To fetch good Breeding, Wit, and Learning thence,
As hope our Stage, all others should exceed,
And mingling with us, mend our English breed;
When this is brought to pass, I am afraid
That in a Play-house I shall dye a Maid;
That Miracles don't cease, and I shall see
Some Players Martyrs for their Honesty.
J. H.—the greatest Bigot of the Nation,
And see him burn for Transubstantiation.
Or hope to see, from such a Mongrel breed,
Wits that the Godlike Shakespear shall exceed:
Or what has dropt from Fletcher's fluent Pen,
Our this days Author, or the Learned Ben.
What mighty pains we take to be undone.
Is't not enough, you study our undoing,
But we must be contriving our own ruine;
To stop the Breaches a Rebellion made,
We wisely sent for Irish to our aid;
Who, would not swear we have the same pretence
To fetch good Breeding, Wit, and Learning thence,
As hope our Stage, all others should exceed,
And mingling with us, mend our English breed;
When this is brought to pass, I am afraid
That in a Play-house I shall dye a Maid;
That Miracles don't cease, and I shall see
Some Players Martyrs for their Honesty.
J. H.—the greatest Bigot of the Nation,
And see him burn for Transubstantiation.
Or hope to see, from such a Mongrel breed,
Wits that the Godlike Shakespear shall exceed:
Or what has dropt from Fletcher's fluent Pen,
Our this days Author, or the Learned Ben.
Now all our Writers, all their gifts impart
In spight of Nature; and in scorn of Art.
No wonder Irish Fogs, obscure our Light,
When such as scarce can read, presume to write.
Oh poor Pernassus, thou art eaten bare,
For every Rhimer has a Common there;
The Muses now are errant Strumpets grown,
Hackny'd by every Scribler in the Town.
In spight of Nature; and in scorn of Art.
No wonder Irish Fogs, obscure our Light,
When such as scarce can read, presume to write.
76
For every Rhimer has a Common there;
The Muses now are errant Strumpets grown,
Hackny'd by every Scribler in the Town.
Well Sirs, since others Faults I have made known,
Let me propose a Project of my own,
Depose our Men, our Male Administrators,
And once trye us, us Female Regulators;
I'll be content to live and dye a Nun,
If ere we manage worse than they have done:
Nay more; I will be bound to make it good,
And that is very hard to flesh and Blood,
If you our total ruine would prevent,
Make ours, I say, a Female Government.
Let me propose a Project of my own,
Depose our Men, our Male Administrators,
And once trye us, us Female Regulators;
I'll be content to live and dye a Nun,
If ere we manage worse than they have done:
Nay more; I will be bound to make it good,
And that is very hard to flesh and Blood,
If you our total ruine would prevent,
Make ours, I say, a Female Government.
FINIS.
| The Prophetess : or, the History of Dioclesian | |