_Dor._ My charming Bride! It was a strange perversion of Taste, that led me to consider the delicate timidity of your deportment, as the mark of an uninform'd mind, or inelegant manners. I feel now it is to that innate modesty, _English_ Husbands owe a felicity the Married Men of other nations are strangers to: it is a sacred veil to your own charms; it is the surest bulwark to your Husband's honour; and cursed be the hour--should it ever arrive--in which _British_ Ladies shall sacrifice to _foreign Graces_ the Grace of Modesty! _FINIS._ EPILOGUE. _Nay, cease, and hear me--I am come to scold--_ _Whence this night's plaudits, to a thought so old?_ _To gain a Lover, hid behind a Mask!_ _What's new in that? or where's the mighty task?_ _For instance, now--What Lady Bab, or Grace,_ _E'er won a Lover--in her_ natural _Face_? _Mistake me not--French red, or blanching creams,_ _I stoop not to--for those are hackney'd themes;_ _The arts I mean, are harder to detect,_ _Easier put on, and worn to more effect;--_ _As thus----_ _Do Pride and Envy, with their horrid lines,_ _Destroy th' effect of Nature's sweet designs?_ _The Mask of Softness is at once applied,_ _And gentlest manners ornament the Bride._ _Do thoughts too free inform the Vestal's eye,_ _Or point the glance, or warm the struggling sigh?_ _Not Dian's brows more rigid looks disclose;_ _And Virtue's blush appears, where Passion glows._ _And you, my gentle Sirs, wear Vizors too;_ } _But here I'll strip you, and expose to view_ } _Your hidden features----First I point at you._ } _That well-stuff'd waistcoat, and that ruddy cheek;_ _That ample forehead, and that skin so sleek,_ _Point out good-nature, and a gen'rous heart----_ _Tyrant! stand forth, and, conscious, own thy part:_ _Thy Wife, thy Children, tremble in thy eye;_ _And Peace is banish'd--when the_ Father's _nigh_. _Sure 'tis enchantment! See, from ev'ry side_ _The Masks fall off!--In charity I hide_ _The monstrous features rushing to my view----_ _Fear not, there, Grand-Papa--nor you--nor you:_ _For should I shew your features to each other,_ _Not one amongst ye'd know his Friend, or Brother._ _'Tis plain, then, all the world, from Youth to Age,_ _Appear in Masks--Here, only, on the Stage,_ _You see us as we are:_ Here _trust your eyes;_ _Our wish to please, admits of no disguise._ _Of the Publisher may be had_, _By the same_ AUTHOR, THE RUNAWAY, a Comedy. ALBINA, a Tragedy. WHO'S THE DUPE? a Farce. THE MAID OF ARRAGON, a Poem, Part I. * * * * * * Transcriber's note: