Epilogue to Cleone

Well, ladies2so much for the tragic stile And now, the custom is2to make you smile. "To make us smile, I hear Flippanta say, Yes2we have smil'd indeed—thro' half the play; We always laugh; when bards, demure and sly, Bestow such mighty pains2to make us cry. And truly to bring sorrow to a crisis, Mad-folks, and murder'd babes are shrewd devices. "The Captain gone three years2and then to blame The vestal conduct of his virtuous dame! What French, what English bride would think it treason, When thus accus'd2to give the brute some reason? Out of my house2this night, forsooth2depart! A modern wife had said2With all my heart: But think not, haughty Sir, I'll go alone! Order your coach2conduct me late to town Give me my jewels—wardrobe—and my maid— And pray take care, my pin-money be paid. Else know, I wield a pen2and, for its glory, My dear's domestic feats2may shine in story! "Then for the Child—the tale was truly sad But who for such a bantling would run mad? What wife, at midnight hour inclin'd to roam, Would fondly drag her little chit from home? What has the mother with her child to do? Dear brats—the Nursery’s the place for you!" Such are the strains of many a modish Fair! Yet memoirs—not of modern growth—declare The time has been, when modesty and truth Were deem'd additions to the charms of youth; Ere, in the dice-box ladies found delight; Or swoon'd for lack of cards, on Sunday night; When women hid their necks and veil'd their faces. Nor romp'd, nor rak'd, nor star'd, at public places: Nor took the airs of Amazons2for graces! When plain domestic virtues were the mode; And wives ne'er dreamt of happiness abroad, But cheer'd their offspring, shun'd fantastic airs; And with joys of wedlock, mixt the cares. Such modes are past2yet sure they merit praise; For marriage triumph'd in those wassel days: No virgin sigh'd in vain; no fears arose, Lest hostile wars should cause a dearth of beaux; By chaste decorum. Each, affection gain'd: By faith and fondness, what she won, maintain'd. 'Tis yours, ye Fair! to mend a thoughtless age, That scorns the press, the pulpit, and the stage! To yield frail Husbands no pretence to stray: (Men will be rakes, if women lead the way) To sooth2But truce with these preceptive lays; The Muse, who, dazzled with your ancient praise, On present Worth and modern Beauty tramples, Must own, she ne'er could boast more bright examples.