ELL, firs! our English Antients are agreed
A Maid of Honour, is a Maid indeed!
'Tis not alone, among the virgin band,
Demure behind the Chair of State to ftand;
To groan beneath the labours of the loom,
A walking pageant of the Drawing Room;
To hear the fmall talk of small lords in waiting,
Or trifle with White Wands, inclin❜d to prating;
No! 'tis her province, firmly to support,
Intrench'd in the ftrong fences of a Court,
That citadel, where thousand dangers wait,
And Female Honour holds her aweful ftate!
Harmless, with bufy hum and empty found,
The filken Court-Flies buz and flutter round;
They, like Fulgentio, are with fcorn difmift,
So weak, 'tis fcarce a triumph to resist.
But when Burtoldos, true blood Royal, vie-
Then, then's the glorious effort to deny !
To prove with all a woman's graces on her,
She's still a Maid, a real Maid of Honour!
Yet, ah! Camiola, thy fate was hard! Severe the sentence of our rigid Bard! What! nip a beauteous maiden in her bloom, And in a convent all her charms entomb! Confign her fortune, blaft her bud of youth, Though one fwain's Falfehoud proves another's Truth; While fhe, like Cato, finds from each adorer "Her Bane and Antidote are both before her!
Sicilian Maids of Honour thus were undone➡
Ah, Maids of Honour act not thus in London!
Here, in chafte dew fweet rofes hail the morn,
Undoom❜d to wither on the virgin thorn.
Stern Romish doctrines, ftrict Italian rules,
Suit not the freedom of our British schools:
Our wifer Law a fager code exhibits;
Our milder Church such sacrifice prohibits.
Should fome falfe lord, betroth'd, his contract break, And at the altar's foot the maid forfake,
In comes the Serjeant to diftrain his lands-
And while fome young Adorni ready stands,
In comes the readier Prieft to join their Hands.
Nay e'en the Widow, who her loft love grieves,
Here takes thofe Thirds our Maid of Honour leaves.
Not Rome herself fo dreadfully enthralls:
E'en Eloifa, 'twixt a nunnery's walls,
Paft joys with her dear Abelard recalls:
Joys which, her days of trial nobly past,
May ev'ry Maid of Honour taste at last!
A COMEDY, written by Mrs. INCHBALD.
Spoken by Mr. PALMER.
TADIES and Gentlemen, I'll tell you what!
Yet not, like Ancient Prologue, tell the plotBut, like a Modern Prologue, try each way To win your favour towards the coming play.
Our author is a Woman; that's a charm,
Of power to guard Herfelf and Play from harm.
The Mufes, Ladies-Regent of the Pen,
Grant women fkill, and force, to write like men.
Yet They, like the Eolian Maid of old,
Their Sex's Character will ever hold;
Not with bold Quill too roughly ftrike the lyre,
But with the Feather raife a foft defire.
Our Poetefs has gain'd fublimeft heights!
Not Sappho's felf has foar'd to nobler flights!
For She, bright fpirit, the firft British fair,
Climb'd, unappall'd, the unfubftantial air:
And here, beneath the changes of the Moon,
Wond'ring you faw her launch a grand Balloon;
While she with fteady course, and flight not dull,
Paid a fhort vifit to the Great Mogul*.
Shrink not, Nabobs! our Poetess to-night,
Wakes not the Genius of Sir Matthew Mite.
Beyond our hemisphere she will not roam,
Keeps in the Line, and touches nearer home:
Nay will not, as before, howe'er you fcorn her,
Reach e'en the tunpike-gate at Hyde-Park-Corner.
But hold!-I say too much-I quite forgot—
And fo, I'll tell you-no-SHE'LL tell you what!
*Alluding to the Farce of the MoGUL-TALE.
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