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EPILOGUE TO TIMANTHES,
Spoken by Mrs. YATE S.
HAT horrors fill the Tragick Poet's brain!
Plague, Murder, Rape and Incest, croud his train; He pants for miferies, delights in ills, The blood of Fathers, Mothers, Children, spills; Stabs, poisons, massacres, and, in his rage, With Daggers, Bowls, and Carpets, strews the Stage.
Our gentler Poet, in soft Opera bred,
Woman, whate'er she be-Maid, Widow, Wife A quiet woman is the charm of life. And sure Cephisa was a gentle creature, Full of the milk and honey of good nature, Imported for a spouse, by spouse refus'd ! Was ever maid so shamefully abus’d?
And yet, alas, poor Prince! I could not blame him
But what a barb'rous law was this of Thrace!
Ladies, to you alone our Author sues : 'Tis yours to cherish, or condemn his Muse. The Theatre's a Mirror, and each Play Should be a very Looking-Glass, they say ; His Looking-Glass reflects no moles or pimples, But shews you full of graces, smiles, and dimples. If you approve yourselves, resolve to spare, And, Criticks ! then attack him, if ye dare !
To the TRAGEDY of CLEMENTINA,
Spoken by Mr. BENSLE Y.
In these our moral and religious days,
Men dread the crying sin of writing Plays; While some, whose wicked wit incurs the blame, Howe'er they love the trespass, Ay the lhame.
If, a new holy war with vice to wage, Some Preacher quits the Pulpit for the Stage, The Rev’rend Bard, with much remorse and fear, Attempts to give his Evening Lecture here; The work, engender’d, to the would must rise; But yet the father may elude our eyes. The parish on this trick of youth might frown, And thus, unown'd, 'tis thrown upon the town. At our Director's door he lays the fin, Who fees the Babe, relents, and takes it in ; To swathe and dress it first unstrings his purse, Then kindly puts it out to you - to nurse.
Should some Young Counsel, thro' his luckless star, By writing Plays turn truant to the Bar.
Call's up by you to this High Court of Wit,
Grave, solemn Doctors, whose prescribing pen
Thus each by turns ungratefully refuse
'Tis your's to night the work alone to scan:
ROM Otway's and immortal Shakespear's page,
Venice is grovin familiar to our Stage.
To night in Venice we have plac'd our scene,
The City's self—a wonder, all agreem