The Wife A Tale of Mantua |
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EPILOGUE, WRITTEN BY CHARLES LAMB. SPOKEN BY MISS ELLEN TREE. |
 | The Wife |  |
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EPILOGUE, WRITTEN BY CHARLES LAMB. SPOKEN BY MISS ELLEN TREE.
When first our Bard his simple will express'd,
That I should in his Heroine's robes be dress'd,
My fears were with my vanity at strife,
How I could act that untried part—a “Wife.”
But Fancy to the Grison hills me drew,
Where Mariana like a wild flower grew,
Nursing her garden-kindred: so far I
Liked her condition, willing to comply
With that sweet single life: when, with a cranch,
Down came that thundering, crashing avalanche,
Startling my mountain-project! “Take this spade,”
Said Fancy, then; “dig low, adventurous Maid,
For hidden wealth.” I did: and, Ladies, lo!
Was e'er romantic female's fortune so,
To dig a life-warm lover from the—snow?
That I should in his Heroine's robes be dress'd,
My fears were with my vanity at strife,
How I could act that untried part—a “Wife.”
But Fancy to the Grison hills me drew,
Where Mariana like a wild flower grew,
Nursing her garden-kindred: so far I
Liked her condition, willing to comply
With that sweet single life: when, with a cranch,
Down came that thundering, crashing avalanche,
Startling my mountain-project! “Take this spade,”
Said Fancy, then; “dig low, adventurous Maid,
For hidden wealth.” I did: and, Ladies, lo!
Was e'er romantic female's fortune so,
To dig a life-warm lover from the—snow?
A wife and Princess see me next, beset
With subtle toils, in an Italian net;
While knavish Courtiers, stung with rage or fear,
Distill'd lip-poison in a husband's ear.
I ponder'd on the boiling Southern vein;
Racks, cords, stilettoes, rush'd upon my brain!
By poor, good, weak Antonio, too, disownéd—
I dream'd each night, I should be Desdemona'd:
And, being in Mantua, thought upon the shop
Whence fair Verona's youth his breath did stop:
And what, if Leonardo, in foul scorn,
Some lean Apothecary should suborn
To take my hated life? A “tortoise” hung
Before my eyes, and in my ears scaled “alligators” rung.
But my Othello, to his vows more zealous—
Twenty Iagos could not make him jealous!
With subtle toils, in an Italian net;
While knavish Courtiers, stung with rage or fear,
Distill'd lip-poison in a husband's ear.
I ponder'd on the boiling Southern vein;
Racks, cords, stilettoes, rush'd upon my brain!
By poor, good, weak Antonio, too, disownéd—
I dream'd each night, I should be Desdemona'd:
And, being in Mantua, thought upon the shop
Whence fair Verona's youth his breath did stop:
And what, if Leonardo, in foul scorn,
Some lean Apothecary should suborn
To take my hated life? A “tortoise” hung
Before my eyes, and in my ears scaled “alligators” rung.
But my Othello, to his vows more zealous—
Twenty Iagos could not make him jealous!
New raised to reputation, and to life—
At your commands behold me, without strife,
Well pleased, and ready to repeat “The Wife.”
At your commands behold me, without strife,
Well pleased, and ready to repeat “The Wife.”
| The Wife | |