Posts tagged ‘1696’

Saturday, 28 December 2019

Prologue from “The Lost Lover” by Delarivier Manley

The first Adventurer for her fame I stand,
The Curtain’s drawn now by a Lady’s Hand,
The very Name you’d cry bolas Impotence,
To Fringe and Tea they shou’d confine their. Sence,
And not outstrip the bounds of Providence.
I hope then Criticks, since the Case is so,
You’l scorn to Arm againsti a Worthless Foe,
But curb your Spleen and gall, and trial make,
How our fair Warriour gives her first Attack.
Now all ye chattering Insects straight be dumb,
The Men of Wit and Sense are hither come,
Ask not this Mask to Sup, nor that to show
Some Face more ugly than a Fifty Beau,
Who, if our Play succeeds, will surely say,
Some private Lover helpt her on her way,
As Female Wit were barren like the Moon,
That borrows all her influence from the Sun.
The Sparks and Beaus will surely prove our Friends,
For their good Breeding must make them commend
What Billet Deux so e’re: a Lady sends.
She knew old Thread-bare Topicks would not do,
But Beaus a Species thinks it self still new,
And therefore the resolved to Coppy you.

From: Manley, Mrs., The Lost Lover; or, The Jealous Husband: A Comedy, 1696, R. Bently, F. Saunders, J. Knapton, and R. Wellington: London, p. [unnumbered].

Date: 1696

By: Delarivier Manley (c1670-1724)

Tuesday, 2 July 2019

A Song from “The Spanish Wives: A Farce” by Mary Griffith Pix

Be gone, be gone, thou Hagg despair;
Be gone, back to thy Native Hell:
Leave the Bosom of the Fair,
Where only Joy shou’d dwell.
Or else, with Misers, willing Revels keep;
And stretch thy wretched Lids from from Sleep.
But hence be gone , and in thy hated room
Let Hope, with all its gentle Blessings, come.

From: Pix, Mary, The Spanish Wives: A Farce, as it was acted by His Majesty’s Servants, at the Theatre in Dorset-Garden, 1696, R. Wellington: London, p. 13.

Date: 1696

By: Mary Griffith Pix (1666-1709)

Friday, 21 November 2014

The Expostulation by Elizabeth Singer Rowe (Philomela)

How long, great God, a wretched captive here,
Must I these hated marks of bondage wear?
How long shall these uneasy chains control
The willing flights of my impatient Soul?
How long shall her most pure intelligence
Be strain’d through an infectious screen of gross, corrupted sence?

When shall I leave this darksome house of clay;
And to a brighter mansion wing away?
There’s nothing here my thoughts to entertain,
But one Tyr’d revolution o’re again:
The Sun and Stars observe their wonted round,
The streams their former courses keep: No Novelty is found.

The same curst acts of false fruition o’re,
The same wild hopes and wishes as before;
Do men for this so fondly life caress,
(That airy huff of splendid emptiness?)
Unthinking sots: kind Heaven let me be gone,
I’m tyr’d, I’m sick of this dull Farce’s repetition.

From: Philomela, Poems on Several Occasions, 1696, John Dunton: London, pp. 12-13.

Date: 1696

By: Elizabeth Singer Rowe (Philomela) (1674-1737)