[Exeunt.
[EPILOGUE,]
Written by Mr. Motteux.
I'm thinking, now good husbands are so few,
To get one for my friend what I must do.
Camillo ventur'd hard; yet at the worst,
She stole love's honey-moon, and try'd her lover first.
Many poor damsels, if they dar'd to tell,
Have done as much, but have not 'scap'd so well.
'Tis well the scene's in Spain; thus, in the dark,
I should be loth to trust a London spark.
Some accident might for a private reason,
Silence a female, all this acting-season.
Hard fate of women: any one wou'd vex,
To think what odds, you men have, of our sex.
Restraint and custom share our inclination,
You men can try, and run o'er half the nation.
We dare not, even to avoid reproach,
When you're at White's, peep out of hackney-coach;
Nor with a friend at night, our fame regarding,
With glass drawn up, drive 'bout Covent-Garden.
If poor town-ladies steal in here, you rail,
Tho' like chaste nuns their modest looks they veil;
With this decorum, they can hardly gain
To be thought virtuous, e'en in Drury-Lane.
Tho' this you'll not allow, yet sure you may
A plot to snap you, in an honest way.
In love affairs, one scarce would spare a brother: }
All cheat; and married folks may keep a pother, }
But look as if they cheated one another. }
You may pretend, our sex dissembles most;
But of your truth none have much cause to boast:
You promise bravely; but for all your storming,
We find you're not so valiant at performing.
Then sure Camillo's conduct you'll approve:
Wou'd you not do as much for one you love?
Wedlock's but a blind bargain at the best,
You venture more sometimes, to be not half so blest.
All, soon or late, that dangerous venture make,
And some of you may make a worse mistake.
[THE]
COUNTRY HOUSE.
A
FARCE.