 | The Duchess de la Vallière |  |
179
EPILOGUE,
TO BE SPOKEN IN THE CHARACTER OF THE MARQUIS DE MONTESPAN.
Damn
me!—What, damn a Marquis there's a phrase
That's only fit for peasants, or for plays!
A Marquis damn'd!—the gods will never do it
While authors live;—I hear they're brought up to it.
But folks still talk of what runs in their head!—
Methinks, I see some persons better bred:—
Ah! if your hearts one kindly impulse touches,
You will not damn the Marquis—nor the Duchess!
That's only fit for peasants, or for plays!
A Marquis damn'd!—the gods will never do it
While authors live;—I hear they're brought up to it.
But folks still talk of what runs in their head!—
Methinks, I see some persons better bred:—
Ah! if your hearts one kindly impulse touches,
You will not damn the Marquis—nor the Duchess!
Far from so harsh a fate, you all must know,
Though born about two hundred years ago,
Though, at the court of Louis, called ‘The Great,’
My pension proves how well I served the state;
Yet I alone, of all my age, survive,
My Portia's gone—still Brutus is alive!
Though born about two hundred years ago,
Though, at the court of Louis, called ‘The Great,’
My pension proves how well I served the state;
Yet I alone, of all my age, survive,
My Portia's gone—still Brutus is alive!
Strange changes, gentlemen, methinks have been
Since Pomp and Louis walk'd the living scene.
When I was young, were Dukes inclined to roam,—
Six horses bore them half a mile from home;
But now a Duke takes journeys to the moon,
And steps his half a mile from a balloon!
Once, from the state when honest folks could squeeze,
Like me, a competence, they lived at ease!
But now, all men, no matter what their stations,
Run after things called—‘tempting speculations!’
Tell me, my friends, (it puzzles my invention,)
How, with most profit, to invest my Pension!
I like not land—one never gets one's rent;
Stocks?—who the deuce can live on two per cent.?
But, Heaven be thanked, there are, to cheer one's vapours,
Some famous speculations—in the papers!
(Takes out a newspaper.)
First of the many modes the wind to raise,
“Forty per cent.—new nine-wheeled Cabriolets!”
“Railway to Gretna Green, ten miles a minute,
Five pounds-a-share-deposit!”—Catch me in it!
“Grand Caoutchouc Co.!” (Ah, hard words catch the lubber,)
For making gateposts out of Indian rubber.
New banks that pay you three per cent.!—I see—
They grab your hundred, and return you three!
All are called Companies—all call for cash,
And all make bubbles, if they make a splash.
Nay, when you've gone the round of all the rest,
You've still, I find, your body to invest;
And a new company your bones will bury
In that gay spec—The London Cemetery!
Well, well! let other flies be caught by honey,
These gully-plots shall never catch my money;—
Brisk though the wind, I'll just heave out the anchor,
And, gad, I'll keep my pension with my banker.
Since Pomp and Louis walk'd the living scene.
When I was young, were Dukes inclined to roam,—
Six horses bore them half a mile from home;
But now a Duke takes journeys to the moon,
And steps his half a mile from a balloon!
Once, from the state when honest folks could squeeze,
Like me, a competence, they lived at ease!
But now, all men, no matter what their stations,
Run after things called—‘tempting speculations!’
180
How, with most profit, to invest my Pension!
I like not land—one never gets one's rent;
Stocks?—who the deuce can live on two per cent.?
But, Heaven be thanked, there are, to cheer one's vapours,
Some famous speculations—in the papers!
(Takes out a newspaper.)
First of the many modes the wind to raise,
“Forty per cent.—new nine-wheeled Cabriolets!”
“Railway to Gretna Green, ten miles a minute,
Five pounds-a-share-deposit!”—Catch me in it!
“Grand Caoutchouc Co.!” (Ah, hard words catch the lubber,)
For making gateposts out of Indian rubber.
New banks that pay you three per cent.!—I see—
They grab your hundred, and return you three!
All are called Companies—all call for cash,
And all make bubbles, if they make a splash.
Nay, when you've gone the round of all the rest,
You've still, I find, your body to invest;
And a new company your bones will bury
In that gay spec—The London Cemetery!
Well, well! let other flies be caught by honey,
These gully-plots shall never catch my money;—
Brisk though the wind, I'll just heave out the anchor,
And, gad, I'll keep my pension with my banker.
How I run on!—excuse this idle chatter,
But pensions, now, are such a ticklish matter!
You seem delightful persons, I declare;
Pray come again—don't drive us to despair!
What though the convent has our Duchess captured,
Forgive her faults—and she'll be charmed, enraptured!
But pensions, now, are such a ticklish matter!
You seem delightful persons, I declare;
Pray come again—don't drive us to despair!
What though the convent has our Duchess captured,
Forgive her faults—and she'll be charmed, enraptured!
| The Duchess de la Vallière | |