Address, Spoken by Miss Fontenelle, on Her Benefit-night, December 4, 1793, at the Theatre, Dumfries STILL anxious to secure your partial favour, And not less anxious, sure, this night, than ever, A Prologue, Epilogue, or some such matter, ‘Twould vamp my bill, said I, if nothing better; So sought a Poet, roosted near the skies, Told him I came to feast my curious eyes; Said nothing like his works was ever printed; And last, my Prologue-business slily hinted. ‘Ma’am, let me tell you,’ quoth my man of rhymes, ‘I know your bent-these are no laughing times: Can you-but, Miss, I own I have my fears- Dissolve in pause, and sentimental tears? With laden sighs, and solemn-rounded sentence, Rouse from his sluggish slumbers fell Repentance, Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand, Waving on high the desolating brand, Calling the storms to bear him o’er a guilty land?’ I could no more-askance the creature eyeing, D’ye think, said I, this face was made for crying? I’ll laugh, that’s poz-nay, more, the world shall know it; And so, your servant! gloomy Master Poet! Firm as my creed, Sire, ‘tis my fix’d belief, That Misery’s another word for Grief; I also think-so may I be a bride! That so much laughter, so much life enjoy’d. Thou man of crazy care and ceaseless sigh, Still under bleak Misfortune’s blasting eye; Doom’d to that sorest task of man alive- To make three guineas do the work of five: Laugh in Misfortune’s face- the beldam witch! Say you’ll be merry, the’ you can’t be rich. Thou other man of care, the wretch in love, Who long with jiltish arts and airs hast strove; Who, as the boughs all temptingly project, Measur’st in desperate thought-a rope-thy neck- Or, where the beetling cliff o’erhangs the deep, Peerest to meditate the healing leap: Would’st thou be cur’d, thou silly, moping elf? Laugh at her follies-laugh e’en at thyself: Learn to despise those frowns now so terrific, And love a kinder: that’s your grand specific. To sum up all, be merry, I advise; And as we’re merry, may we still be wise. 1793 |
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