Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE DUKE OF GUISE: EPILOGUE: 1, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Much time and trouble this poor play has cost
Last Line: With tory wings, but whiggish teeth and claws.
Subject(s): Plays & Playwrights ; Politics & Government; Dramatists


Much Time and Trouble this poor Play has cost;
And faith, I doubted once the Cause was lost.
Yet no one Man was meant, nor Great nor Small;
Our Poets, like frank Gamesters, threw at All.
They book no single Aim: ----
But, like bold Boys, true to their Prince and hearty,
Huzza'd, and fired Broad-sides at the whole Party.
Duels are Crimes; but, when the Cause is right,
In Battel every Man is bound to fight.
For what should hinder Me to sell my Skin,
Dear as I cou'd, if once my Hand were in?
Se defendendo never was a Sin.
'Tis a fine World, my Masters, right or wrong,
The Whiggs must talk, and Tories hold their Tongue.
They must do all they can ----
But We, Forsooth, must bear a Christian mind,
And fight, like Boys, with one Hand ty'd behind;
Nay, and when one Boy's down, 'twere wond'rous wise
To cry, Box fair, and give him time to rise.
When Fortune favours, none but Fools will dally;
Would any of you Sparks, if Nan or Mally
Tipp'd you th' inviting Wink, stand, shall I, shall I?
A Trimmer cry'd (that heard me tell this Story),
Fie, Mistress Cooke! Faith, you're too rank a Tory!
Wish not Whiggs hang'd, but pity their hard Cases;
You Women love to see Men make wry Faces. --
Pray, Sir, said I, don't think me such a Jew;
I say no more, but give the Dev'l his due. --
Lenitives, says he, best suit with our Condition.
Jack Ketch, says I, 's an excellent Physician.
I love no Bloud. -- Nor I, Sir, as I breath;
But hanging is a fine dry kind of Death.
We Trimmers are for holding all things even. --
Yes -- just like him that hung 'twixt Hell and Heaven. --
Have we not had Men's Lives enow already?' --
Yes sure: -- but you're for holding all things steddy.
Now since the Weight hangs all on one side, Brother,
You Trimmers shou'd, to poize it, hang on t' other.
Damn'd Neuters, in their middle way of steering.
Are neither Fish nor Flesh nor good Red-Herring:
Not Whiggs, nor Tories they: nor this, nor that;
Not Birds, nor Beasts; but just a kind of Bat:
A Twilight Animal; true to neither Cause,
With Tory Wings, but Whiggish Teeth and Claws.





Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!


Other Poems of Interest...
Home: PoetryExplorer.net