EPILOGUE TO TIMANTHES, Spoken by Mrs. YATES. February, 1770

What horrors fill the Tragick Poet's brain! Plague, Murder, Rape and Incest, croud his train; He pants for miseries, delights in ills, The blood of Fathers, Mothers, Children, spills; Stabs, poisons, massacres, and, in his rage, With Daggers, Bowls, and Carpets, strews the Stage.

Our gentler Poet, in soft Opera bred, Italian Crotchets singing in his head, Winds to a prosperous end the fine-drawn tale, And roars—but roars like any Nightingale.

Woman, whate'er she be—Maid, Widow, Wife— A quiet woman is the charm of life. And sure Cephisa was a gentle creature, Full of the milk and honey of good nature. Imported for a spouse, by spouse refus'd! Was ever maid so shamefully abus'd? And yet, alas, poor Prince! I could not blame him— One wife, I knew, was full enough to tame him. Ismena, and Timanthes, and Olynthus, Might all be happy—for I chose Cherinthus.

But what a barb'rous law was this of Thrace! How cruel there was each young lady's case! A virgin, plac'd upon the dreadful roll, A hapless virgin must have stood the poll, But by Timanthes made a lucky bride, Ismena prudently disqualified.

Ladies, to you alone our Author sues: 'Tis yours to cherish, or condemn his Muse. The Theatre's a Mirror, and each Play Should be a very Looking-Glass, they say; His Looking-Glass reflects no moles or pimples, But shews you full of graces, smiles, and dimples. If you approve yourselves, resolve to spare, And, Criticks! then attack him, if ye dare!