Epilogue

Rape upon Rape! what Author ever chose A Name so sure to make the Fair his Foes! And, Ladies, I can read in all your Faces, Our Author is not much in your good Graces; But pray, confess, does all this Fury fall, Because these Scenes Rape upon Rape we call? Or is it—that we have no Rape at all?

Our modern Beaus in Vigour are so hearty, And modern Dames so very full of Vartue, So scarce immodest Women, Men so urging, A Rape's almost as common as a—Virgin.

Oh! may our Youth whose Vigour is so parlous, To Italy be wafted with Don Carlos; There should one Victory but give them Scope, They would not leave one Maidenhead for the Pope; Or should some new Pope Joan the Chair possess, They'd play the Devil with her—Holiness. Rape upon Rape should follow Blows on Blows, And New Rome fall, by what the Old arose.

Lucretia surely, tho' her Fame has sounded, With Ardour for her Country ne'er abounded; Who so abhorr'd, what had her Country founded. Heathenish Wretch! the Pious Christian Wife, Tho' ravish'd, still contents herself with Life: So zealous from Self-Murther we refrain, We live, tho' sure of ravishing again.

What need has She of Penance or Repenting, Who undergoes it all without consenting? She sure, tho' with her Sword Lucretian swagger, Requires a Cordial rather than a Dagger.

But may no fear of Ravishing affright The beauteous kind Spectators of To-night; Safe to your Husbands Arms may you escape, And never know that dreadful thing, a RAPE.