Epilogue

While grave-paced Tragedy, with Oh's! and Starts! Flies at high game, to move and mend your hearts, We merrier folks, with spirits blithe and jolly, Just perch upon some little sprig of folly: For, in this Age, so pious, chaste, and grave, To rail at Vice, must surely be to rave!

Yet thanks to here and there a modish fool, The COMIC MUSE may glean some ridicule. Jews will be Jews, if dupes can yet be found, And if one frail one's left on English ground, She'll find a Phaeton and pair of ponies To elope—for all men are not Maccaronies:— Those precious Dears, at least, would make her wait— 'Twould be so vulgar, not to be too late.

Our sex—but shall I charge the weaker kind? Or can those fail to stray, whose guides are blind! Let men reform themselves, they're our examples— And goods prove seldom better than their samples. In former times the gallant British Youth Were formed for Chivalry, and Love, and Truth— In such an Age, in such a virtuous Nation, Love was in woman almost inspiration.— But now, alas! I speak without a jest, Women are not inspired—they're but possest. Men are our pilots! They should mark the shelves; For when they blame us, they reproach themselves.