Epilogue

What Tragick Bustle in this British Play!— But,—I am told, 'tis writ the ancient Way. Nay;—That it is not Modern, is plain Fact:— There's not one Simile,—to close an Act. But, let me see:—What other Art is wanting?— In Tragedy, there ought to be some Ranting: Something, so Exquisite;—so very Good;— It cannot, possibly, be understood! But, Gwendolen's hard Fate I censure, most.— The blooming Princess,—Fair,—as any Toast; Captive to Valens; Yvor's promis'd Bride; Between Two, bashful Knights,—a Virgin died. Three Hours, unblest,—with an Italian, pass'd! No warbling Lover could have been more chaste.— Our keener Sportsmen would have seiz'd the Quarry:— But, thus it is,—when Men design—to marry. Still harder Fate!—If Druid-Songs be true, She must,—for ever!—Her first Flame renew. Such monst'rous Constancy let Heathen Schools Injoin:—We, Christian Maids, are no such Fools. One Month,—at most,—we can a Husband bear:— There's not Two Honey-Moons, in any Year. Then; what a Brute is Vanoc!—What a Pother!— How could she help it, if—she lov'd another? Poor Cartismand!—There's not a Man,—now living, But would have seem'd, at least, far more forgiving. What?—Not connive at One?—or Two?—or Three?— Well!—Britain never, till of late, was Free! How would his British Blood be set a madding, Had he, in Masquerades beheld her, gadding! But, why does Vellocad not, once, appear? He was a pretty Fellow!—you may swear! And, what though Vanoc says, He could not fight? Is that the Way to do a Lady, Right? Since those rude Times, Husbands are more discreet; And know their Cue, to wink at—what is meet. Then, take us as we are.—'Tis no great Matter:— For Women will be frail, while Men can flatter.