Classic Poem

I must, will speak — I hope my dress and air
Announce the man of fashion, not the player;
Though gentlemen are now forbid the scenes,
Yet have I rush'd through heroes, kings, and queens:
Resolv'd, in pity to this polish'd age,
To drive these ballad-heroes from the stage.
" To drive the ear with hound and horn,
Earl Percy took his way:
The child may rue, that is unborn,
The hunting of that day. "
A pretty basis, truly, for a modern play!
What! shall a scribbling, senseless woman dare
To your refinements offer such coarse fare?
Is Douglas, or is Percy, fir'd with passion,
Ready for love or glory, death to dash on,
Fit company for modern still-life men of fashion?
Such madness will our hearts but slightly graze,
We've no such frantic nobles now-a-days.
Heart-strings, like fiddle-strings, vibrate no tone,
Unless they're tuned in perfect unison;
And youths of yore, with ours can ne'er agree —
They're in too sharp, ours in too flat a key.
Could we believe old stories, those strange fellows
Married for love — could of their wives be jealous —
Nay, constant to 'em too — and, what is worse,
The vulgar souls thought faithless wives a curse.
Most wedded pairs had then one purse, one mind,
One bed too — so preposterously kind —
From such barbarity (thank Heaven) we're much refin'd.
Old songs their happiness at home record,
From home they sep'rate carriages abhorr'd —
One horse serv'd both — my lady rode behind my lord.
'Twas death alone could snap their bends asunder —
Now tack'd so slightly, not to snap's the wonder.
Nay, death itself could not their hearts divide,
They mix'd their love with monumental pride,
For, cut in stone, they still lie side by side.
But why these gothic ancestors produce?
Why scour their rusty armours? What's the use?
'Twould not your nicer optics much regale,
To see us beaux bend under coats of mail;
Should we our limbs with iron doublets bruise;
Good Heaven! how much court-plaster we should use;
We wear no armour now — but on our shoes.
Let not with barbarism true taste be blended,
Old vulgar virtues cannot be defended,
Let the dead rest — we living can't be mended.