The Works of Alexander Pope (1717)/Epilogue to Jane Shore

by Alexander Pope

 

EPILOGUE

TO

JANE SHORE.

Design'd for Mrs. Oldfield.

Prodigious this! the Frail one of our Play
From her own sex should mercy find to day!
You might have held the pretty head aside,
Peep'd in your fans, been serious, thus, and cry'd,
The Play may pass—but that strange creature, Shore,
I can't—indeed now—I so hate a whore—
Just as a blockhead rubs his thoughtless skull,
And thanks his stars he was not born a fool;
So from a sister sinner you shall hear,
"How strangely you expose your self, my dear?
But let me die, all raillery apart,
Our sex are still forgiving at their heart;
And did not wicked custom so contrive,
We'd be the best, good-natur'd things alive.
There are, 'tis true, who tell another tale,
That virtuous ladies envy while they rail;
Such rage without betrays the fire within;
In some close corner of the soul, they sin:
Still hoarding up, most scandalously nice,
Amidst their virtues, a reserve of vice.
The godly dame who fleshly failings damns,
Scolds with her maid, or with her chaplain crams,
Wou'd you enjoy soft nights and solid dinners?
Faith, gallants, board with saints, and bed with sinners.
Well, if our author in the Wife offends,
He has a Husband that will make amends.
He draws him gentle, tender, and forgiving,
And sure such kind good creatures may be living.
In days of old they pardon'd breach of vows,
Stern Cato's self was no relentless spouse:
Plu——— Plutarch, what's his name that writes his life?
Tells us, that Cato dearly lov'd his wife:
Yet if a friend a night, or so, should need her,
He'd recommend her, as a special breeder.
To lend a wife, few here would scruple make,
But pray which of you all would take her back?
Tho' with the Stoick chief our stage may ring,
The Stoick husband was the glorious thing.
The man had courage, was a sage, 'tis true,
And lov'd his country—but what's that to you?
Those strange examples ne'er were made to fit ye,
But the kind cuckold might instruct the City:
There, many an honest man may copy Cato,
Who ne'er saw naked Sword, or look'd in Plato.
If, after all, you think it a disgrace,
That Edward's Miss thus perks it in your face,
To see a piece of failing flesh and blood,
In all the rest so impudently good;
Faith, let the modest matrons of the town,
Come here in crowds, and stare the strumpet down.