By MR. WELSTED
Our author, whom intreaties cannot move,
Spite of the dear coquetry that you love,
Swears he'll not frustrate (so he plainly means),
By a loose epilogue, his decent scenes.
Is it not, sirs, hard fate I meet today,
To keep me rigid1 still beyond the play?
And yet I'm saved a world of pains that way.
I now can look, I now can move at ease,
Nor need I torture these poor limbs to please,
Nor with the hand or foot attempt surprise, 10 Nor wrest my features, nor fatigue my eyes. Bless me! what freakish gambols have I played!
What motions tried, and wanton looks betrayed!
Out of pure kindness all, to over-rule
The threatened hiss, and screen some scribbling fool. 15 With more respect I'm entertained tonight: Our author thinks I can with ease delight.
My artless looks while modest graces arm,
He says I need but to appear, and charm.
A wife so formed, by these examples bred, 20 Pours joy and gladness 'round the marriage bed; Soft source of comfort, kind relief from care,
And 'tis her least perfection to be fair.
The nymph with Indiana's worth who vies,
A nation will behold with Bevil's eyes. 25