The Heiress (Burgoyne, 1786)/Epilogue
EPILOGUE.
Spoken by Miss Farren.
The Comic Muse, who here erects her shrine,
To court your offerings, and accepts of mine,
Sends me to state an anxious author's plea,
And wait with humble hope this Court's decree.
By no Prerogative will she decide,
She vows, an English Jury is her pride.
Then for our Heiress—forced from finer air,
That lately fan'd her plumes in Berkeley-square;
Will she be helpless in her new resort,
And find no friends—about the inns of court?
Sages be candid—tho' you hate a knave,
Sure, for example, you'll a Rightly save.
Be kind for once ye clerks—ye sportive sirs
Who haunt our Theatres in boots and spurs,
So may you safely press your nightly hobby,
Run the whole ring—and end it in the lobby.
Lovers of truth, be kind; and own that here
That love is strain'd as far as it will bear.
Poets may write—Philosophers may dream—
But would the world bear truth in the extreme?
What, not one Blandish left behind! not one!
Poets are mute, and Painters all undone:
Where are those charms that Nature's term survive,
The maiden bloom that glows at forty-five?
Truth takes the pencil—wrinkles—freckles—squint,
The whole's transform'd,—the devil's in't,
Dimples turn scars, the smile becomes a scowl!
The hair the ivy-bush, the face the owl.
But shall an author mock the flatt'rer's pow'r?
Oh might you all be Blandishes this hour!
Then would the candid jurors of the Pit,
Grant their mild passport to the realms of Wit;
Then would I mount the car where oft I ride,
And place the favour'd culprit by my side.
To aid our flight—one fashionable hint—
See my authority—a Morning Print—
"We learn"—observe it Ladies—"France's Queen
"Loves, like our own, a heart-directed scene;
"And while each thought she weighs, each beauty scans,
"Breaks, in one night's applause, a score of fans!"
[Beating her fan against her hand.
Adopt the mode, ye Belles—so end my prattle,
And shew how you'll outdo a Bourbon rattle.
To court your offerings, and accepts of mine,
Sends me to state an anxious author's plea,
And wait with humble hope this Court's decree.
By no Prerogative will she decide,
She vows, an English Jury is her pride.
Then for our Heiress—forced from finer air,
That lately fan'd her plumes in Berkeley-square;
Will she be helpless in her new resort,
And find no friends—about the inns of court?
Sages be candid—tho' you hate a knave,
Sure, for example, you'll a Rightly save.
Be kind for once ye clerks—ye sportive sirs
Who haunt our Theatres in boots and spurs,
So may you safely press your nightly hobby,
Run the whole ring—and end it in the lobby.
Lovers of truth, be kind; and own that here
That love is strain'd as far as it will bear.
Poets may write—Philosophers may dream—
But would the world bear truth in the extreme?
What, not one Blandish left behind! not one!
Poets are mute, and Painters all undone:
Where are those charms that Nature's term survive,
The maiden bloom that glows at forty-five?
Truth takes the pencil—wrinkles—freckles—squint,
The whole's transform'd,—the devil's in't,
Dimples turn scars, the smile becomes a scowl!
The hair the ivy-bush, the face the owl.
But shall an author mock the flatt'rer's pow'r?
Oh might you all be Blandishes this hour!
Then would the candid jurors of the Pit,
Grant their mild passport to the realms of Wit;
Then would I mount the car where oft I ride,
And place the favour'd culprit by my side.
To aid our flight—one fashionable hint—
See my authority—a Morning Print—
"We learn"—observe it Ladies—"France's Queen
"Loves, like our own, a heart-directed scene;
"And while each thought she weighs, each beauty scans,
"Breaks, in one night's applause, a score of fans!"
[Beating her fan against her hand.
Adopt the mode, ye Belles—so end my prattle,
And shew how you'll outdo a Bourbon rattle.