EPILOGUE TO LUCIUS by MATTHEW PRIOR

THE female author who recites to-day,
Trusts to her sex the merit of her play.
Like father Bayes securely she sits down:
Pit, box, and gallery, 'gad! is all our own.
In ancient Greece, she says, when Sappho writ,
By their applause the critics showed their wit;
They tuned their voices to her lyric string,
Though they could all do something more than sing.
But one exception to this fact we find;
That booby Phaon only was unkind;
An ill-bred boat-man, rough as waves and wind.
From Sappho down through all succeeding ages,
And now on French, or on Italian stages,
Rough satires, sly remarks, ill-natured speeches,
Are always aimed at poets that wear breeches.
Armed with Longinus, or with Rapin, no man
Drew a sharp pen upon a naked woman.
The blustering bully, in our neighbouring streets,
Scorns to attack the female that he meets;
Fearless the petticoat contemns his frowns,
The hoop secures whatever it surrounds.
The many-coloured gentry there above,
By turns are ruled by tumult, and by love;
And while their sweet-hearts their attention fix,
Suspend the din of their damned clattering sticks.
Now, Sirs -----
To you our author makes her soft request,
Who speak the kindest, and who write the best,
Your sympathetic hearts she hopes to move,
From tender friendship, and endearing love.
If Petrarch's Muse did Laura's wit rehearse;
And Cowley flattered dear Orinda's verse;
She hopes from you -- Pox take her hopes and fears:
I plead her sex's claim, what matters hers?
By our full power of beauty we think fit
To damn the salique law imposed on wit:
We'll try the empire you so long have boasted;
And if we are not praised, we'll not be toasted.
Approve what one of us presents to-night,
Or every mortal woman here shall write;
Rural, pathetic, narrative, sublime,
We'll write to you, and make you write in rhyme;
Female remarks shall take up all your time.
Your time, poor souls! we'll take your very money;
Female third days shall come so quick upon ye.
As long as we have eyes, or hands, or breath,
We'll look, or write, or talk you all to death.
Unless you yield for better and for worse;
Then the she-pegasus shall gain the course;
And the gray mare will prove the better horse.

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