EPILOGUE.
WRITTEN BY THE LATE ROBERT MERRY, ESQ.
SPOKEN BY MRS. JORDAN.
Ye solemn critics! wheresoe’er you’re seated,To grant a favour, may you be entreated?For which I’ll pay you proper adoration,And strive to please you—that is my vocation.Then do not frown, but give due share of praise,Nor rend from Shakspeare’s tomb the sacred bays.The scatter’d flow’rs he left, benignly save!Posthumous flow’rs! the garland of the grave!What, tho’ he liv’d two hundred years ago,He knew you very well, as I will show:His pencil sketch’d you, and that seldom errs;You’re all, whate’er you think,hischaracters.How!—do you doubt it?—cast your eyes around,In ev’ry corner of this house they’re found.Observe the jolly grazier in the pit;Why, he is Falstaff, fat, and full of wit;In fun, and feasting places, his delight;And, with his Dolly, emulates the knight.Look at that youth, whose countenance of wo,Denotes a tender-hearted Romeo!He only wishes, tho’ he dare not speak,To be a glove to touch his Juliet’s cheek!While she, from yonder terrace, smiles serene,And longs, with him, to play the garden scene.But, O! I tremble now:—there sits a man,Rugged and rough, a very Caliban!He growls out his displeasure,—’tis a shame!Do, dear Miranda! make the monster tame.And you, my pretty Beatrice, don’t fret,Your Benedict is fond of a coquette.For tho’ he vows he’ll think no more about you,He means to marry—he can’t live without you.Kind faithful Imogenes are here, to charm us,Mad Edgars, ancient Pistols to alarm us;And Hotspurs, too, who seek the glorious boon,“To pluck bright honour from the pale-fac’d moon.”Besides, we have our Touchstones, Shylocks dire,Iagos false, and many a shallow Squire:Nay, there are ladies, who in their own houses,Are Desdemonas, plagu’d with jealous spouses.’Tis true, there is some change, I must confess,Since Shakspeare’s time, at least, in point of dress:The ruffs are gone, and the long female waistYields to the Grecian, more voluptuous taste;While circling braids the copious tresses bind,And the bare neck spreads beautiful behind.Our senators and peers no longer go,Like men in armour, glitt’ring in a row;But, for the cloak and pointed beard we noteThe close-cropt head, and little short great coat.Yet is the modern Briton still the same,Eager to cherish, and averse to blame;Foe to deception, ready to defend,A kind protector and a gen’rous friend.
Ye solemn critics! wheresoe’er you’re seated,To grant a favour, may you be entreated?For which I’ll pay you proper adoration,And strive to please you—that is my vocation.Then do not frown, but give due share of praise,Nor rend from Shakspeare’s tomb the sacred bays.The scatter’d flow’rs he left, benignly save!Posthumous flow’rs! the garland of the grave!What, tho’ he liv’d two hundred years ago,He knew you very well, as I will show:His pencil sketch’d you, and that seldom errs;You’re all, whate’er you think,hischaracters.How!—do you doubt it?—cast your eyes around,In ev’ry corner of this house they’re found.Observe the jolly grazier in the pit;Why, he is Falstaff, fat, and full of wit;In fun, and feasting places, his delight;And, with his Dolly, emulates the knight.Look at that youth, whose countenance of wo,Denotes a tender-hearted Romeo!He only wishes, tho’ he dare not speak,To be a glove to touch his Juliet’s cheek!While she, from yonder terrace, smiles serene,And longs, with him, to play the garden scene.But, O! I tremble now:—there sits a man,Rugged and rough, a very Caliban!He growls out his displeasure,—’tis a shame!Do, dear Miranda! make the monster tame.And you, my pretty Beatrice, don’t fret,Your Benedict is fond of a coquette.For tho’ he vows he’ll think no more about you,He means to marry—he can’t live without you.Kind faithful Imogenes are here, to charm us,Mad Edgars, ancient Pistols to alarm us;And Hotspurs, too, who seek the glorious boon,“To pluck bright honour from the pale-fac’d moon.”Besides, we have our Touchstones, Shylocks dire,Iagos false, and many a shallow Squire:Nay, there are ladies, who in their own houses,Are Desdemonas, plagu’d with jealous spouses.’Tis true, there is some change, I must confess,Since Shakspeare’s time, at least, in point of dress:The ruffs are gone, and the long female waistYields to the Grecian, more voluptuous taste;While circling braids the copious tresses bind,And the bare neck spreads beautiful behind.Our senators and peers no longer go,Like men in armour, glitt’ring in a row;But, for the cloak and pointed beard we noteThe close-cropt head, and little short great coat.Yet is the modern Briton still the same,Eager to cherish, and averse to blame;Foe to deception, ready to defend,A kind protector and a gen’rous friend.
Ye solemn critics! wheresoe’er you’re seated,To grant a favour, may you be entreated?For which I’ll pay you proper adoration,And strive to please you—that is my vocation.Then do not frown, but give due share of praise,Nor rend from Shakspeare’s tomb the sacred bays.The scatter’d flow’rs he left, benignly save!Posthumous flow’rs! the garland of the grave!What, tho’ he liv’d two hundred years ago,He knew you very well, as I will show:His pencil sketch’d you, and that seldom errs;You’re all, whate’er you think,hischaracters.How!—do you doubt it?—cast your eyes around,In ev’ry corner of this house they’re found.Observe the jolly grazier in the pit;Why, he is Falstaff, fat, and full of wit;In fun, and feasting places, his delight;And, with his Dolly, emulates the knight.Look at that youth, whose countenance of wo,Denotes a tender-hearted Romeo!He only wishes, tho’ he dare not speak,To be a glove to touch his Juliet’s cheek!While she, from yonder terrace, smiles serene,And longs, with him, to play the garden scene.But, O! I tremble now:—there sits a man,Rugged and rough, a very Caliban!He growls out his displeasure,—’tis a shame!Do, dear Miranda! make the monster tame.And you, my pretty Beatrice, don’t fret,Your Benedict is fond of a coquette.For tho’ he vows he’ll think no more about you,He means to marry—he can’t live without you.Kind faithful Imogenes are here, to charm us,Mad Edgars, ancient Pistols to alarm us;And Hotspurs, too, who seek the glorious boon,“To pluck bright honour from the pale-fac’d moon.”Besides, we have our Touchstones, Shylocks dire,Iagos false, and many a shallow Squire:Nay, there are ladies, who in their own houses,Are Desdemonas, plagu’d with jealous spouses.’Tis true, there is some change, I must confess,Since Shakspeare’s time, at least, in point of dress:The ruffs are gone, and the long female waistYields to the Grecian, more voluptuous taste;While circling braids the copious tresses bind,And the bare neck spreads beautiful behind.Our senators and peers no longer go,Like men in armour, glitt’ring in a row;But, for the cloak and pointed beard we noteThe close-cropt head, and little short great coat.Yet is the modern Briton still the same,Eager to cherish, and averse to blame;Foe to deception, ready to defend,A kind protector and a gen’rous friend.
Ye solemn critics! wheresoe’er you’re seated,
To grant a favour, may you be entreated?
For which I’ll pay you proper adoration,
And strive to please you—that is my vocation.
Then do not frown, but give due share of praise,
Nor rend from Shakspeare’s tomb the sacred bays.
The scatter’d flow’rs he left, benignly save!
Posthumous flow’rs! the garland of the grave!
What, tho’ he liv’d two hundred years ago,
He knew you very well, as I will show:
His pencil sketch’d you, and that seldom errs;
You’re all, whate’er you think,hischaracters.
How!—do you doubt it?—cast your eyes around,
In ev’ry corner of this house they’re found.
Observe the jolly grazier in the pit;
Why, he is Falstaff, fat, and full of wit;
In fun, and feasting places, his delight;
And, with his Dolly, emulates the knight.
Look at that youth, whose countenance of wo,
Denotes a tender-hearted Romeo!
He only wishes, tho’ he dare not speak,
To be a glove to touch his Juliet’s cheek!
While she, from yonder terrace, smiles serene,
And longs, with him, to play the garden scene.
But, O! I tremble now:—there sits a man,
Rugged and rough, a very Caliban!
He growls out his displeasure,—’tis a shame!
Do, dear Miranda! make the monster tame.
And you, my pretty Beatrice, don’t fret,
Your Benedict is fond of a coquette.
For tho’ he vows he’ll think no more about you,
He means to marry—he can’t live without you.
Kind faithful Imogenes are here, to charm us,
Mad Edgars, ancient Pistols to alarm us;
And Hotspurs, too, who seek the glorious boon,
“To pluck bright honour from the pale-fac’d moon.”
Besides, we have our Touchstones, Shylocks dire,
Iagos false, and many a shallow Squire:
Nay, there are ladies, who in their own houses,
Are Desdemonas, plagu’d with jealous spouses.
’Tis true, there is some change, I must confess,
Since Shakspeare’s time, at least, in point of dress:
The ruffs are gone, and the long female waist
Yields to the Grecian, more voluptuous taste;
While circling braids the copious tresses bind,
And the bare neck spreads beautiful behind.
Our senators and peers no longer go,
Like men in armour, glitt’ring in a row;
But, for the cloak and pointed beard we note
The close-cropt head, and little short great coat.
Yet is the modern Briton still the same,
Eager to cherish, and averse to blame;
Foe to deception, ready to defend,
A kind protector and a gen’rous friend.
IN THE PRESS,
HENRY THE SECOND,
AN HISTORICAL DRAMA,
WRITTEN BY THE AUTHOR OF VORTIGERN, AND ATTRIBUTED TO
SHAKSPEARE.
BALNE, PRINTER, GRACECHURCH STREET, LONDON.