EPILOGUE. Spoken by Mrs. HENRY, in the character of Lanissa

Well, here I come—and almost out of breath, 'Twixt love, fire, fear, and widow hood and death; While I for such fictitious strife am harness'd— I feel—I suffer—more than half in earnest: By Bramin's seiz'd—those bloody-minded fellows— My hair-breadth 'scapes were greater than Othello's! Nought could have sav'd me from the jaws of fate, Had my French lover came one breath too late.— The pile prepar'd and kindling brisk as tinder, They'd burn'd your poor Lanissa to a cinder!

BUT well our author had contriv'd the whole, And seems, in truth, a right good-natur'd soul: He swears himself his drama, without vanity, Is founded on the basis of humanity; Without one RULE or UNITY infringing, He sav'd his heroine from a mortal singing— So after all this mighty fire and rattle, Our bloodless play is like a bloodless battle.

AM I to blame, if, this dear life to save, I lik'd a lover better than a grave; Prefer'd your christian maxims for a drama, To all the murd'rous rites of pagan Brama; And held, retreating from my fun'ral urn, "Twas better far to marry than to burn?" No—I'll be burn'd, but ev'ry maid and widow, Would do, in such a case, just as I did do. YES—thank your stars, Columbia's happy dames! Ye need not fear those frightful fun'ral flames:— Of other lands let foreign bards be dreaming, But this, this only is the land for women:— Here ye invert the Bramins' barb'rous plan, And stretch your sceptre o'er the tyrant—man.

YE men, if I offend, I ask your pardon, I would not for the world your sex bear hard on. Ye are the fathers, founders of a nation, The gods on earth, the lords of this creation! And let philosophers say what they please, You're not grown less by coming o'er the seas:— We know your worth, and dare proclaim your merit.— The world may ask your foes, "if you want spirit?" Your vict'ries won—your revolution ended— Your constitution newly made—and mended— Your fund of wit—your intellectual riches— Plans in the closet—in the senate speeches— Will make this age of heroes, wits, and sages, The first in story to the latest ages!— Go on—and prosper with your projects blest, 'Till your millennium rises in the west:— We wish success to your politic scheming, Rule ye the world!—and then—be rul'd by women!—

FOR here, ye fair, no servile rites bear sway, Nor force ye—(though ye promise)—to obey: Blest in the mildness of this temp'rate zone, Slaves to no whims, or follies—but your own— Here custom, check'd in ev'ry rude excess, Confines its influence to the arts of dress, O'er charms eclips'd the side-long hat displays, Extends the hoop, or pares away the stays, Bedecks the fair with artificial geer, Breast-works in front, and bishops in the rear:— The idol rears, on beauty's dazzling throne, Mankind her slaves, and all the world her own; Bound by no laws a husband's whims to fear, Obey in life, or burn upon his bier; She views with equal eye, sublime o'er all, A lover perish—or a lap-dog fall— Coxcombs or monkeys from their chains broke loose— And now a husband dead—and now a goose.

BUT jesting all apart—and such droll strictures; We'll strive to charm you with still fairer pictures— For 'tis our object to divert—not tease you— To make you laugh or cry—as best shall please you— So as it suits each kind spectator's turn, You'll come to see me play the fool—or burn— Ladies and gentlemen! on this condition, I humbly offer my sincere petition, That you'll come oft to hear me sing or say— "And poor Lanissa will for ever pray!"