Classic Poem

EPILOGUE

By Mr. SHADWELL Spoken by Mrs. Bracegirdle .

How full of Beaus this Circle does appear
Who hate all Camps, all will not leave us here,
For all the Fame of Talbot, Sydney, Vere.
'Las a Beau's tender, subject to catch cold,
And a rough Camp will make one look so old;
The cold so pinch, the heat so tan his Face,
He ne'er can ogle more with any Grace:
Poor miserable Beau is quite undone,
The lustre of his dear Complexion gone;
Beside Wounds in the Face, alack! and Woe!
Some cruel Bullet may cut off a Beau:
Out on't, who but a Sot wou'd not prefer
Pulvillio to Match and Gunpowder?
Or who would leave, so careless of dear Gut,
Locket' s or Long' s, for a vile Sutler's Hut?
Or would lie cold in Tents, or hard in Trenches,
Rather than in warm Beds with pretty Wenches?
Sweet Sparks do you continue in good mind,
Let others follow Drums, stay you behind.
You profitable Bees yield Wax and Honey,
To Poets Matter, and to Players Money
If you, dear Beaus, should have so little Wit,
For grinning Honour your Delights to quit,
How should we want you inside Box and Pit.
Spite of old English Magnanimity ,
Be you from Foreign fighting ever free,
And let us have your sweet Society.
Discourse at home of Van and Flank and Reer,
And rout French Monsieurs o'er a Bottle here ,
But to the filthy Camp pray come not near.