Classic Poem

Epilogue [to the Town. Intended to be Spoken in 1721.]

What could our young Dramatic Monarch mean,
Now to revive this chaste old-fashioned Scene?
Did he project to make in this free Nation
A capital Offence of Fornication?
Thrice whimsical! who such wild Plans espouses;
I'm sure, it ne'er wou'd pass thro' both the Houses.
'Tis what our Men scarce e'er think worth repenting,
And Women only Prudence not consenting.
But Eyes speak loud what's not pronounc'd by Lips,
Whil'st wide proclaiming Hoop scarce covers Hips.
This is the Tast our sad Experience shews;
This is the Tast of Belles as well as Beaux:
Else say, in Britain why shou'd it be heard,
That Etherege to Shakespear is preferr'd?
Whilst Dorimant to crowded Audience wenches,
Our Angelo repeats to empty Benches:
Our Nymph deluded has but coolly sped,
While to unwilling Bridegroom's Arms she's led;
Loveit unpitied mourns, unpitied wooes;
Still Dorimant triumphant Guilt pursues:
You've lost the Sense of giving Virgins Aid;
'Tis Comedy with you, an injur'd Maid:
The perjur'd Dorimant the Beaux admire;
Gay perjur'd Dorimant the Belles desire:
With fellow-feeling, and with conscious Gust,
Each Sex applauds inexorable Lust.

For Shame, for Shame, ye Men of Sense, begin,
And scorn the base Captivity of Sin:
Sometimes at least to Understanding yield,
Nor always leave to Appetite the Field;
Love, Glory, Friendship, languishing must stand,
While Sense and Appetite have sole Command;
Give Man sometimes some Force in the Dispute;
Be sometimes Rational, tho oftner Brute.

Believe it, Sirs, if fit for us to say
Or if our Epilogue may suit our Play;
'Tis time, 'Tis time, ye should be more severe;
And what less guilty Nations suffer, fear;
Be Men, or hope not Heav'n will long secure ye
From quicker Pestilence than that round Drury .