Classic Poem

EPILOGUE.

B RITONS , who constant War, with factious Rage,
For Liberty against each other wage,
From Foreign Insult save this English Stage.
No more th' Italian squaling Tribe admit,
In Tongues unknown; 'tis Popery in Wit.
The Songs (their selves confess) from Rome they bring;
And 'tis High-Mass, for ought you know, they Sing.
Husbands take Care, the Danger may come nigher,
The Women say their Eunuch is a Friar.

But is it not a serious Ill to see
Europe 's great Arbiters so mean can be;
Passive, with an affected Joy to sit,
Suspend their native Taste of Manly Wit;
Neglect their Comic Humour, Tragic Rage,
For known Defects of Nature, and of Age.
Arise for shame, ye Conqu'ring Britons rise,
Such unadorn'd Effeminacy despise;
Admire (if you will doat on Foreign Wit)
Not what Italians Sing, but Romans Writ:
So shall less Works, such as to-Night's slight Play,
At your Command, with Justice die away;
'Till then forgive your Writers, that can't bear
You should such very Tramontanes appear,
The Nations, which contemn you, to revere.

Let Anna's Soil be known for all its Charms;
As Fam'd for Lib'ral Sciences, as Arms:
Let those Derision meet, who would Advance
Manners, or Speech, from Italy or France ;
Let them learn You, you wou'd your Favour find,
And English be the Language of Mankind .