Chapter XLVII: Epilogue: to the Same

_Spoken by the Lady_ SLINGSBY.

Fair Ladies, pity an unhappy Maid,
By Fortune, and by faithless Love betray’d.
Innocent once--I scarce knew how to sin,
Till that unlucky Devil entring in,
Did all my Honour, all my Faith undo:
LOVE! like _Ambition_ makes us Rebels too:
And of all Treasons, mine was most accurst;
Rebelling ‘gainst a KING and FATHER first.
A Sin, which Heav’n nor Man can e’re forgive;
Nor could I _Act_ it with the Face to live.
My Dagger did my Honours cause redress;
But Oh! my blushing Ghost must needs confess,
Had my young Charming Lover faithful been,
I fear I dy’d with unrepented Sin.
There’s nothing can my Reputation save
With all the _True_, the _Loyal_ and the _Brave_;
Not my Remorse, or Death can expiate
With them a Treason ‘gainst the KING and _State_.
Some Love-sick Maid perhaps, now I am gone,
(Raging with Love, and by that Love undone,)
May form some little _Argument_ for me,
T’ excuse m’ _Ingratitude_ and _Treachery_.
Some of the Sparks too, that infect the _Pit_,
(Whose Honesty is equal to their Wit,
And think _Rebellion_ but a petty Crime,
Can turn to all sides Int’rest does incline,)
May cry ‘_I gad I think the Wench is wise;_
_’.ad it prov’d Lucky, ‘twas the Way to rise._
_’.he had a_ Roman _Spirit, that disdains_
_’.ull Loyalty, and the Yoke of Sovereigns._
_’. Pox of Fathers, and Reproach to come;_
_’.he was the first and Noblest_ Whig _of_ Rome.
But may that Ghost in quiet never rest,
Who thinks it self with Traytors Praises blest.

_Mrs._ Behn’s _Satyr on_ Dryden.

(_On Mr._ Dryden, _Renegate_.)

Scorning religion all thy life time past,
And now embracing popery at last,
Is like thyself; & what thou’st done before
Defying wife and marrying a whore.
Alas! how leering Hereticks will laugh
To see a gray old hedge bird caught with chaffe.
A Poet too from great heroick theames
And inspiration, fallen to dreaming dreams.
But this the priests will get by thee at least
That if they mend thee, miracles are not ceast.
For ‘tis not more to cure the lame & blind,
Than heal an impious ulcerated mind.
This if they do, and give thee but a grain
Of common honesty, or common shame,
‘Twill be more credit to their cause I grant,
Than ‘twould to make another man a saint.
But thou noe party ever shalt adorn,
To thy own shame & Nature’s scandall borne:
All shun alike thy ugly outward part,
Whilest none have right or title to thy heart.
Resolved to stand & constant to the time,
Fix’d in thy lewdness, settled in thy crime.
Whilest Moses with the Israelites abode,
Thou seemdst content to worship Moses’ God:
But since he went & since thy master fell,
Thou foundst a golden calf would do as well.
And when another Moses shall arise
Once more I know thou’lt rub and clear thy eyes,
And turn to be an Israelite again, }
For when the play is done & finisht clean, }
What should the Poet doe but shift the scene. }

VALENTINIAN.

_Prologue spoken by Mrs._ Cook _the first Day._

_Written by Mrs._ Behn.

[Sidenote: The Fair on the _Thames_ so called.]

With that assurance we to day address,
As standard Beauties, certain of Success.
With careless Pride at once they charm and vex,
And scorn the little Censures of their Sex.
Sure of the unregarded Spoyl, despise
The needless Affectation of the Eyes,
The softening Languishment that faintly warms,
But trust alone to their resistless Charms.
So we secur’d by undisputed Wit,
Disdain the damning Malice of the Pit,
Nor need false Arts to set great Nature off,
Or studied tricks to force the Clap and Laugh.
Ye wou’d-be-Criticks, you are all undone,
For here’s no Theam for you to work upon.
Faith seem to talk to _Jenny_, I advise,
Of who likes who, and how Loves Markets rise.
Try these hard Times how to abate the Price;
Tell her how cheap were Damsels on the Ice.
‘Mongst City-Wives, and Daughters that came there,
How far a Guinny went at _Blanket-Fair_.
Thus you may find some good Excuse for failing
Of your beloved Exercise of Railing.
That when Friend cryes--How did the Play succeed?
Deme, I hardly minded--what they did.
We shall not your Ill-nature please to day,
With some fond Scribblers new uncertain Play,
Loose as vain Youth, and tedious as dull Age,
Or Love and Honour that o’re-runs the Stage.
Fam’d and substantial Authors give this Treat,
And ‘twill be solemn, Noble all and Great.
Wit, sacred Wit, is all the bus’ness here;
Great _Fletcher_, and the greater _Rochester_.
Now name the hardy Man one fault dares find,
In the vast Work of two such Heroes joyn’d.
None but Great _Strephon’s_ soft and pow’rful Wit
Durst undertake to mend what _Fletcher_ writ,
Different their heav’nly Notes; yet both agree
To make an everlasting Harmony.
Listen, ye Virgins, to his charming Song,
Eternal Musick dwelt upon his Tongue.
The Gods of Love and Wit inspir’d his Pen,
And Love and Beauty was his glorious Theam.

Now, Ladies, you may celebrate his Name,
Without a scandal on your spotless Fame.
With Praise his dear lov’d Memory pursue,
And pay his Death, what to his Life was due.

_To_ Henry Higden, _Esq.; on his Translation of the_ Tenth Satyr _of_ Juvenal.

I.

I know you, and I must confess
From Sence so Celebrated, and so True,
_Wit_ so Uncommon, and so New,
As that which alwaies shines in You;
I cou’d expect no less.
‘Tis _Great_, ‘tis _Just_, ‘tis _Noble_ all!
Right Spirit of the _Original_;
No scatter’d Spark, no glimmering Beams,
As in some Pieces here and there,
Through a dark Glade of _Duller Numbers_ gleams.
But ‘tis all Fire! all Glittering every where
_Grateful Instruction_ that can never fail,
To Please and Charm, even while you Rail.
By _Arts_ thus Gentle and Severe
The _Powers Divine_ first made their Mortals Wise;
The soft Reproach they did with Reverence bear;
While they Ador’d the GOD that did Chastize,