Epilogue to Elvira
Ladies and gentlemen—'tis so ill-bred—
We have no epilogue because I'm dead.
For he, our bard, with frenzy-rolling eye,
Swears you shan't laugh when he has made you cry.
At which I gave his sleeve a gentle pull:
Suppose they should not cry and should be dull.
In such a case 'twould surely do no harm,
A little lively nonsense taken warm.
On critic stomachs delicate and queasy,
'Twill even make a heavy meal sit easy.
“The town hates epilogues.” It is not true.
I answered that for you—and you—and you.
They call for epilogues and hornpipes too.
“Madam,” the critics say—to you they're civil.
Here, if they have 'em not, they'll play the devil.
Out of this house, sir, and to you alone,
They'll smile, cry “Bravo!” “Charming!” Here they groan.
A single critic will not frown, look big,
Harmless and pliant as a single twig;
But crowded here they change and 'tis not odd,
For twigs, when bundled up, become a rod.
Critics to bards, like beauties to each other,
When tete-a-tete their enmity they smother:
“Kiss me, my dear.” “How do you?” “Charming creature!”
“What shape, what bloom, what spirit in each feature!”
“You flatter me.” “'Pon honour, no.” “You do.”
“My friend!” “My dear!” “Sincerely yours.” “Adieu.”
But when at routs, the dear friends change their tone—
I speak of foreign ladies, not our own.
Will you permit, good sirs, these gloomy folk
To give all tragedy without one joke?
They gravely tell us tragedy's designed
To purge the passions, purify the mind.
To which I say, to strike those blockheads dumb,
With physic always give a sugar-plum.
I love these sugar-plums in prose or rhymes—
No one is merrier than myself sometimes.
Yet I, poor I, with tears and constant moan,
Am melted down almost to skin and bone.
This night in sighs and sobs I drew my breath;
Love, marriage, treason, prison, poison, death,
Were scarce sufficient to complete my fate—
Two children were thrown in to make up weight.
With all these sufferings, is it not provoking
To be denied at last a little joking?
If they will make new laws, for mirth's sake break 'em.
Roar out for epilogues and let me speak 'em.
We have no epilogue because I'm dead.
For he, our bard, with frenzy-rolling eye,
Swears you shan't laugh when he has made you cry.
At which I gave his sleeve a gentle pull:
Suppose they should not cry and should be dull.
In such a case 'twould surely do no harm,
A little lively nonsense taken warm.
On critic stomachs delicate and queasy,
'Twill even make a heavy meal sit easy.
“The town hates epilogues.” It is not true.
I answered that for you—and you—and you.
They call for epilogues and hornpipes too.
“Madam,” the critics say—to you they're civil.
Here, if they have 'em not, they'll play the devil.
Out of this house, sir, and to you alone,
They'll smile, cry “Bravo!” “Charming!” Here they groan.
A single critic will not frown, look big,
Harmless and pliant as a single twig;
But crowded here they change and 'tis not odd,
For twigs, when bundled up, become a rod.
Critics to bards, like beauties to each other,
When tete-a-tete their enmity they smother:
“Kiss me, my dear.” “How do you?” “Charming creature!”
“What shape, what bloom, what spirit in each feature!”
“You flatter me.” “'Pon honour, no.” “You do.”
“My friend!” “My dear!” “Sincerely yours.” “Adieu.”
But when at routs, the dear friends change their tone—
I speak of foreign ladies, not our own.
Will you permit, good sirs, these gloomy folk
To give all tragedy without one joke?
They gravely tell us tragedy's designed
To purge the passions, purify the mind.
To which I say, to strike those blockheads dumb,
With physic always give a sugar-plum.
I love these sugar-plums in prose or rhymes—
No one is merrier than myself sometimes.
Yet I, poor I, with tears and constant moan,
Am melted down almost to skin and bone.
This night in sighs and sobs I drew my breath;
Love, marriage, treason, prison, poison, death,
Were scarce sufficient to complete my fate—
Two children were thrown in to make up weight.
With all these sufferings, is it not provoking
To be denied at last a little joking?
If they will make new laws, for mirth's sake break 'em.
Roar out for epilogues and let me speak 'em.
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