Fugitive Pieces - TO WOMAN. - Literature Archive

  Surely experience might have told me,
  That all must love thee, who behold thee;
  Surely experience might have taught,
  A woman’s promises are naught,
  But plac’d in all thy charms before me,
  All I forget, but to adore thee.
  Oh memory! thou choicest blessing,
  When join’d with hope, when still possessing;
  Thou whisperest, as our hearts are beating,
  “What oft we’ve done, we’re still repeating.”
  But how much curst by every lover,
  When hope is fled, and passion’s over.
  Woman that fair and fond deceiver,
  How prompt are striplings to believe her,
  How throbs the pulse, when first we view,
  The eye that rolls in glossy blue;
  Or sparkles black, or mildly throws,
  A beam from under hazel brows;
  How quick we credit every oath,
  And hear her plight the willing troth;
  Fondly we hope ’twill last for aye,
  When lo! she changes in a day,
  The Record will forever stand,
  “That woman’s vows, are writ in sand.”

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AN OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE DELIVERED BY THE AUTHOR, PREVIOUS TO THE PERFORMANCE OF THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE, AT A PRIVATE THEATRE.

Since the refinement of this polish’d age, Has swept immoral raillery from the stage; Since taste has now expung’d licentious wit, Which stamp’d disgrace on all an author writ; Since now to please with purer scenes we seek, Nor dare to call the blush from beauty’s cheek; Oh! let the modest muse some pity claim, And meet indulgence—though she find not fame. But not for her alone, we wish respect, Others appear more conscious of defect; To night, no Veteran Roscii you behold, In all the arts of scenic action old; No COOKE, no KEMBLE, can salute you here, No SIDDONS draw the sympathetic tear, To night, you thong to witness the debut, Of embryo actors to the drama new; Here then, our almost unfledg’d wings we try, Clip not our pinions, ere the birds can fly; Failing in this our first attempt to soar, Drooping, alas, we fall to rise no more. Not one poor trembler only, fear betrays, Who hopes, yet almost dreads to meet your praise; But all our Dramatis Personæ wait, In fond suspense, this crisis of their fate; No venal views our progress can retard, Your generous plaudits are our sole reward; For them each Hero all his power displays, Each timid Heroine shrinks before your gaze: Surely these last will some protection find, None to the softer sex can prove unkind; Whilst youth and beauty form the female shield, The sternest critic to the fair must yield. But should our feeble efforts nought avail, Should, after all, our best endeavours fail; Still let some mercy in your bosoms live, And if you can’t applaud, at least forgive.

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