Her chair is waiting — but my lord is dying;
Preparing for the worst! she tells her maid,
To countermand her points and new brocade;
For O! if I should lose the best of men,
Heav’n knows when I shall see the club again.
“So, Lappet, should he die while I am out,
You’ll send for me to lady Basto’s rout;
The doctor said he might hold out till three,
But I han’t spirits for the Coterie!”
Now change the scene — place madam in the fever,
My lord for comfort at the Scavoir Vivre;
His valet enters — shakes his meagre head,
“Chapeau — what news?”— “Ah,! Sir, me lady dead.”
“The deuce!— ’tis sudden, faith — but four days sick!
Well, seven’s the main — (poor Kate) — eleven’s a nick.”
But hence reflections on a senseless train,
Who, lost to real joy, should feel no pain;
‘Mongst Britain’s daughters still can Hymen’s light
Reveal the love which charm’d your hearts to-night,
Shew beauteous martyrs — who would each prefer
To die for him who long has liv’d for her;
Domestic heroines — who, with fondent care,
Outsmile a husband’s grief — or claim a share;
Search where the rankling evils most abound,
And heal with cherub-lips the poison’d wound.
Nay, such bright virtues in a royal mind
Were not alone to Edward’s days confin’d,
Still, still, they beam around Britannia’s throne,
And grace an Eleanora of our own.
EPILOGUE TO SEMIRAMIS
Written by R. B. SHERIDAN, Esç.
Spoken by MRS. YATES.
DISHEVELL’D Still, like Asia’s bleeding queen,
Shall I with jests deride the tragic scene?
No, beauteous mourners! — from whose downcast eyes ——
The Muse has drawn her noblest sacrifice!
Whose gentle bosoms, Pity’s Altars, — bear
The crystal incense of each falling tear! —
— There lives the Poet’s praise — no critic art
Can match the comment of a feeling heart!
When gen’ral plaudits speak the Fable o’er, —
Which mute attention had approv’d before,
Tho’ ruder spirits love th’ accustom’d jest,
Which chases sorrow from the vulgar breast,
Still hearts refined their sadden’d tint retain, —
— The sigh is pleasure, and the jest is pain! —
— Scarce have they smiles to honour Grace or Wit,
— Tho’ Roscius spoke the verse himself had writ.
Thus, thro’ the time when vernal fruits receive
The grateful show’rs that hang on April’s eve,
Tho’ ev’ry coarser stem of forest birth
Throws with the morning beam its dews to earth,
— Ne’er does the gentle Rose revive so soon —
But bath’d in Nature’s tears, it droops till noon.
O could the Muse one simple moral teach!
From scenes like these, which all who heard might reach!
— Thou child of Sympathy — who’er thou art,
Who, with Assyria’s Queen, hast wept thy part —
Go search, where keener woes demand relief,
Go — while thy heart yet beats with fancy’d grief;
Thy lips still conscious of the recent sigh,
The graceful tear still ling’ring in thy eye —
Go — and on real misery bestow
The bless’d effusion of fictitious woe! —
So shall our muse, supreme of all the nine,
Deserve, indeed, the title of — Divine! —
Virtue shall own her favour’s from above,
And Pity — greet her — with a sister’s love!
PROLOGUE TO SIR THOMAS OVERBURY
Written by R.BRINSLEY SHERIDAN Esq.
Spoken by MR. HULL.
TOO long the Muse, attach’d to regal show,
Denies the scene to tales of humbler woe;
Such as were wont, while yet they charm’d the ear,
To steal the plaudit of a silent tear;
When Otway gave domestic grief its part,
And Rowe’s familiar sorrows touch’d the heart.
A scepter’d traitor, lash’d by vengeful fate,
A bleeding hero, or a falling state,
Are themes (tho’ nobly worth the classic song)
Which feebly claim your sighs, nor claim them long;
Too great for pity, they inspire respect,
Their deeds astonish rather than affect;
Proving how rare the heart that woe can move,
Which reason tells us we can never prove.
Other the scene, where sadly stands confest
The private pang that rends the suff’rer’s breast;
When sorrow sits upon a parent’s brow,
When fortune mocks the youthful lover’s vow,
All feel the tale, for who so mean but knows
What father’s sorrows are? what lover’s woes?
On kindred ground our bard his fabric built,
And plac’d a mirror there for private guilt;
Where, fatal union! will appear combin’d
An angel’s form, and an abandon’d mind;
Honour attempting passion to reprove,
And friendship struggling with unhallow’d love.
Yet view not, critics, with severe regard
The orphan-offspring of an orphan-bard;
Doom’d, while he wrote, unpitied to sustain
More real mis’ries than his pen could feign.
Ill-fated Savage! at whose birth was giv’n
No parent but the Muse, no friend but heav’n!
Whose youth no brother knew, with social care
To soothe his suff’rings, or demand to share;
No wedded partner of his mortal woe,
To win his smile at all that fate could do;
While at his death, nor friend’s, nor mother’s tear,
Fell on the track of his deserted bier.
So pleads the tale, that gives to future times
The son’s misfortunes, and the parent’s crimes;
There shall his fame (if own’d to night) survive,
Fix’d by the hand that bids our language live.
EPILOGUE TO THE FATAL FALSEHOOD
Written by R. B. SHERIDAN, Esq.; and spoken by MR.LEE
LEWIS, in the Character of an enraged Author.
UNHAND me, gentlemen, by Heaven, I say,
I’ll make a ghost of him who bars my way.
[Behind the Scenes.
Forth let me come — A Poetaster true,
As lean as Envy, and as baneful too;
On the dull audience let me vent my rage,
Or drive these female scriblers from the stage:
For scene or history, we’ve none but these,
The law of Liberty and Wit they seize
In Tragic — Comic — Pastoral — they dare to please.
Each puny Bard must merely burst with spite,
To find that women with such fame can write:
But, oh! your partial favour is the cause,
Who feed their follies with such full applause;
Yet still our tribe shall seek to blast their fame,
And ridicule each fair pretender’s aim;
When the dull duties of domestic life,
Wage with the Muse’s toils eternal strife.
What motley cares Corilla’s mind perplex,
While maids and metaphors conspire to vex!
In studious deshabille behold her sit,
A letter’d gossip, and a housewife wit;
At once invoking, tho’ for different views,
Her gods, her cook, her milliner, and muse,
Round her strew’d room, a frippery chaos lies,
A chequer’d wreck of notable and wise;
Bills, books, caps, couplets, combs, a vary’d mass,
Oppress the toilet, and obscure the glass;
Unfinish’d here an epigram is laid,
And there, a mantua-maker’s bill unpaid;
Here new-born plays fore-taste the town’s applause,
There, dormant patterns pine for future gauze;
A moral essay now is all her care,
A satire next, and then a bill of fare:
A scene she now projects, and now a dish,
Here’s Act the First — and here — Remove with Fish.
Now while this eye in a fine phrenzy rolls,
That, soberly casts up a bill for coals;
Black pins and daggers in one leaf she sticks,
And tears and thread, and balls and thimbles mix.
Sappho, ’tis true, long vers’d in epic song,
For years esteem’d all household studies wrong;
When dire mishap, though neither shame nor sin,
Sappho herself, and not her Muse, lies in.
The virgin Nine in terror fly the bower,
And matron Juno claims despotic power;
Soon Gothic hags the classic pile o’erturn,
And caudle-cup supplants the sacred urn;
Nor books, nor implements escape their rage,
They spike the ink-stand, and they rend the page;
Poems and plays one barbarous fate partake,
Ovid and Plautus suffer at the stake,
And Aristotle’s only sav’d — to wrap plumb cake.
Yet, shall a woman tempt the Tragic Scene?
And dare — but hold — I must repress my spleen;
I see your hearts are pledg’d to her applause,
While Shakespeare’s Spirit seems to aid her cause;
Well pleas’d to aid — since o’er his sacred bier
A female hand did ample trophies rear,
And gave the greened laurel that is worshipp’d there.
PROLOGUE TO THE MINIATURE ‘PICTURE
Written by R. B. SHERIDAN, Esq.
CHILL’ D by rude gales, while yet reluctant May
Withholds the beauties of the vernal day,
As some fond maid, whom matron frowns reprove,
Suspends the smile her heart devotes to love,
The Season’s pleasures too delay their hour,
And Winter revels with protracted pow’r;
Then blame not, Critics, if thus late we bring
A Winter’s Drama, — but reproach — the Spring.
What prudent Cit dares yet the season trull,
Bask in his whisky, and enjoy the dust?
Hors’d in Cheapside, scarce yet the gayer Spark
Atchieves the Sunday triumph of the Park;
Scarce yet you see him, dreading to be late,
Scour the New-road, and dash through Grosvenor-gate;
Anxious — yet timorous too — his steed to show,
The hack’d Bucephalus of Rotten-row!
Careless he seems, yet, vigilantly sly,
Woos the stray glance of ladies passing by,
While his off heel, insidiously aside,
Provokes the caper which he seems to chide,
Scarce rural Kensington due honour gains,
The vulgar verdure of her walks remains!
Where white-rob’d Misses amble two by two,
Nodding to booted Beaux— “How do? How do?”
With generous questions that no answer wait —
“How vastly full! A’n’t you come vastly late?
I’n’t it quite charming? When do you leave town?
A’n’t you quite tir’d? Pray can we set you down?”
These suburb pleasures of a London May,
Imperfect yet, we hail the cold delay;
But if this plea’s denied, in our excuse
Another Still remains you can’t refuse;
It is a lady writes — and hark! — a noble Muse!
But see a Critic starting from his bench—’
“A noble Author?” — Yes, Sir, but the Play’s not French:
Yet if it were, no blame on us could fall,
For we, you know, must follow Fashion’s call,
And true it is, things lately were en train
To woo the Gallic Muse at Drury Lane;
Not to import a troop of foreign elves,
But treat you with French actors — in ourselves:
A friend we had, who vowed he’d make us speak
Pure flippant French — by contract — in a week.
Told us ’twas time to Study what was good,
Polish, and leave off being understood;
That crouded audiences we thus might bring
To Monsieur Parsons, and Chevalier King:
Or should the vulgar grumble now and then,
The Prompter might translate — for country gentlemen.
Straight all subscribed — Kings, Gods, Mutes, Singer, Actor, —
A Flanders figure-dancer our contractor.
But here, I grieve to own, tho’t be to you,
He acted — e’en as most contractors do;
Sold what he never dealt in, and th’ amount
Being first discharged, submitted his account:
And what th’ event? Their industry was such,
Dodd spoke good Flemish, Bannister bad Dutch.
Then the rogue told us, with insulting ease,
So it was foreign, it was sure to please:
Beaux, wits, applaud, as fashion should command,
And Misses laugh — to seem to understand —
So from each clime our clime may something gain;
Manhood from Rome, and sprightliness from Spain;
Some Russian Roscius next delight the age,
And a Dutch Heinel skate along the stage.
Exotic fopperies, hail! whose flatt’ring smile
Supplants the sterner virtues of our isle!
Thus, while with Chinese firs and Indian pines
Our nurseries swarm, the British oak declines:
Yet, vain our Muse’s fear — no foreign laws
We dread, while native beauty pleads our cause:
While you’re to judge, whose smiles are honours higher
Than verse should gain, but where those eyes inspire.
But if the men presume your pow’r to awe,
Retort their churlish senatorial law;
This is your house, — and move — the gentlemen withdraw:
Then they may vote, with envy never ceasing,
Your influence has increas’d, and is increasing;
But there, I trust, the resolution’s finish’d;
Sure none will say — it ought to be diminish’d.
EPILOGUE TO THE FAIR CIRCASSIAN
Written by a Friend.
Spoken by Miss FARREN.
OF late at Westminster, in order due,
A gracious speech first made, debates ensue.
Ere then, in this full house, our author’s fate
Becomes the subject of your warm debate —
Ere yet you opposition-criticks rise
To move for censures, and refuse supplies;
Or partial friends pour down corrupt applause,
By orders pension’d in the author’s cause,
From either party — none will sure impeach
My sovereign title to pronounce the speech.
Through me the muse her loyal subjects greets —
Tho’ I speak standing, and you keep your seats —
Pleas’d that so full a house attends the summons —
Pit — Box — and Gallery — Peers and faithful Commons —
With deep concern she bids me here relate
What dangers threaten the dramatic State —
What hosts of foes her tottering realm
s invade,
By fashion muster’d, and by folly paid:
While Taste, her old ally, unmov’d we see,
And Spleen preserves an arm d neutrality.
See first come on — all arm’d in whalebone hoops —
The tuneful leaders of the Italian troops.
Long have they wag’d — too oft with conquest crown’d —
The doubtful conflict betwixt sense and sound.
Allied with these — in hostile bands advance
The light-heel’d legions of invading France.
To point her thunders on our British coast,
Year after year, has been vain Gallia’s boast.
Their troops embark — the bold attempt is plann’d —
Their heroes threaten — and their dancers land.
These only put their threats in execution,
And lay all London under contribution.
Immortal chiefs! who on one leg can do
What yet no warrior has atchiev’d on two.
Like Rome’s proud victor, in their fierce attack,
They come, they see, they conquer, and — go back.
And, modern Jasons, as of old in Greece,
Sail home triumphant with the golden fleece.
Before such dangers shall we prostrate fall?
Or, like true Britons, boldly brave them all?
If fairly led, we’ll bid their host defiance,
Dissolv’d a late unnatural alliance;
Our leader too shall now assistance lend,
Not promise succours, and delay to send:
But chiefly here — our hopes and courage lie
In you, our truest friend and best ally —
Support our Bard to-night, and on his part
Receive the tribute of a grateful heart —
Thro’ me receive, and here again I’ll meet ye,
Act as ambassadress, and sign the treaty.
EPILOGUE FOR A BENEFIT PLAY
IN this gay month, when through the sultry hour
The vernal sun denies the wonted show’r,
When youthful spring usurps maturer sway
And pallid April steals the blush of May,
How joys the rustic tribe to view display’d
The lib’ral blossom and the early shade!
But ah! far other air our soil delights,
Here “charming weather” is the worst of blights,
No genial beams rejoice our rustic train;
Their harvest’s still the better for the rain!
To summer suns our groves no tribute owe,
They thrive in frost, and flourish best in snow,
While other woods resound the feather’d throng,
Our groves, our woods, are destitute of song:
Delphi Complete Works of Richard Brinsley Sheridan Page 63
