Classic Poem

spoken by Mrs. Woffington

If one could credit what these poets tell us,
These Greeks and Romans were surprising fellows.
But when compared with heroes nowadays,
Who can believe one word our author says?

Tonight famed Regulus appeared before you,
Brimful of honour and his country's glory;
So fraught with virtue and with patriot zeal,
He laid down life to serve the public weal.
Bless me, was ever man so wildly frantic?
We have no patriots now are so romantic.
We've no state Quixotes as they had of yore;
Our patriots huff, 'tis true, and rant and roar,
And talk of this and that — but nothing more.

Their ladies too were formed with strange ingredients;
They loved their husbands and were all obedience:
And though their mates for many years would roam,
The constant doves would stay till they came home.
Martia, if what they say can gain belief,
For loss of husband almost died with grief;
And what is stranger still, they all agree
That Regulus was turned of sixty-three.
Would any modern lady break her heart
Because an aged spouse resolves to part?
Would she to thwart his will be so uncivil?
O no, the man might go to Carthage — or the devil!
What mighty stuff composed these sons of freedom!
The classics say (I'm told by those who read 'em)
That they were mortals of such wondrous ment,
That e'en when old they fought and loved with spirit.
Romans at sixty-three, as I'm alive,
Were better men than ours at thirty-five.
In short, if all that's said and wrote be true,
And they when old such mighty feats could do,
O Lord, they played the devil sure at twenty-two!

Thus far with trifling jests to please the age,
And to preserve the custom of the stage;
But now let serious, nobler thoughts impart
The warmest wishes to each English heart.
May every matron Martia's truth approve,
And every maid like constant Clelia love;
May every Decius find a faithful friend,
And every Corvus meet the villain's end;
May every Briton hold his country dear,
And Truth, not Party, every action steer;
May Regulus's conduct point the way,
And no false glitter lead our youths astray;
May every virtue be transplanted home,
And Britain boast the worth of ancient Rome.