Epilogue

Ladies for You—I heard our Poet say— He'd try to coax some Moral from his Play: ' One moral's plain—cried I—without more fuss; ' Man's social happiness all rests on Us— ' Thro' all the Drama—whether d—n'd or not— ' Love gilds the Scene, and Women guide the plot. ' From ev'ry rank—obedience is our due— ' D'ye doubt?—The world's great stage shall prove it true. The Cit—well skill'd to shun domestic strife— Will sup abroad;—but first—he'll ask his wife: John Trot, his friend—for once, will do the same, But then—he'll just step home to tell my dame.— The surly 'Squire—at noon resolves to rule, And half the day—zounds! Madam is a fool! Convinc'd at night—the vanquish'd Victor says, Ah! Kate! you women have such coaxing ways!— The jolly Toper chides each tardy blade,— Till reeling Bacchus calls on Love for aid: Then with each Toast, he sees fair bumpers swim, And kisses Chloe on the sparkling Brim! Nay, I have heard that Statesmen—great and wise— Will sometimes counsel with a Lady's eyes; The servile suitors—watch her various face, She smiles perferment—or she frowns disgrace, Curtsies a pension here—there nods a place. Nor with less awe, in scenes of humbler life, Is view'd the mistress, or is heard the wife. The poorest Peasant of the poorest soil, The child of Poverty, and heir to Toil— Early from radiant Love's impartial light, Steals one small spark, to cheer his world of night: Dear spark!—that oft thro' winter's chilling woes, Is all the warmth his little cottage knows! The wand'ring Tar—who, not for years, has press'd The widow'd Partner of his day of rest— On the cold deck—far from her arms remov'd— Still hums the ditty which his Susan lov'd: And while around the cadence rude is blown, The Boatswain whistles in a softer tone. The Soldier, fairly proud of wounds and toil, Pants for the triumph of his Nancy's smile; But ere the battle should he list' her cries, The Lover trembles—and the Hero dies! That heart, by war and honour steel'd to fear, Droops on a sigh, and sickens at a tear! But Ye more cautious—ye nice judging few, Who give to Beauty only Beauty's due, Tho' friends to Love—Ye view with deep regret Our conquests marr'd—our triumphs incomplete, 'Till polish'd Wit more lasting charms disclose, And Judgment fix the darts which Beauty throws! —In female breasts did Sense and Merit rule, The Lover's mind would ask no other school; Sham'd into sense—the Scholars of our eyes, Our Beaux from Gallantry would soon be wise; Would gladly light, their homage to improve, The Lamp of Knowledge at the Torch of Love!