Classic Poem

EPILOGUE.

Our too advent'rous Author soar'd to Night
Above the little Praise, Mirth to excite,
And chose with Pity to chastise Delight.
For Laughter's a distorted Passion, born
Of sudden self Esteem, and sudden Scorn;
Which, when 'tis o'er, the Men in Pleasure wise,
Both him that mov'd it, and themselves despise;
While generous Pity of a painted Woe
Make us our selves both more approve, and know.
What is that Touch within, which Nature gave
For Man to Man, e'er Fortune made a Slave?
Sure it descends from that dread Power alone,
Who levels Thunder from His awful Throne,
And shakes both Worlds, — yet hears the wretched Groan.

'Tis what the antient Sage could ne'er define,
Wonder'd — and call'd, part human, part divine:
'Tis that pure Joy, which guardian Angels know,
When timely they assist their Care below,
When they the good protect, the ill oppose,
'Tis what our Sovereign feels, when she bestows,
Which gives her glorious Cause such high Success,
That only on the Stage you see Distress.