Classic Poem

EPILOGUE TO TAMERLANE THE GREAT

Ladies , the beardless author of this day
Commends to you the fortune of his play.
A woman wit has often grac'd the stage,
But he's the first boy poet of our age.
Early as is the year his fancies blow,
Like young Narcissus peeping thro' the snow:
Thus Cowley blossom'd soon, yet flourish'd long;
This is as forward, and may prove as strong.
Youth with the fair should always favor find,
Or we are damn'd dissemblers of our kind.
What's all this love they put into our parts?
'T is but the pit-a-pat of two young hearts.
Should hag and graybeard make such tender moan,
Faith, you'd e'en trust 'em to themselves alone,
And cry: “Let's go, here's nothing to be done.”
Since love's our business, as 't is your delight,
The young, who best can practice, best can write.
What tho' he be not come to his full pow'r?
He 's mending and improving every hour,
You sly she-jockeys of the box and pit.
Are pleas'd to find a hot unbroken wit.
By management he may in time be made,
But there's no hopes of an old batter'd jade:
Faint and unnerv'd he runs into a sweat,
And always fails you at the second heat.