THOUGH I'm a female, and the rule is ever,
For us, in Epilogue, to beg your favour,
Yet now I take the lead-and, leaving art
And envy to the men-with a warm heart,
A woman here I come-to take a woman's part.
No little jealousies my mind perplex,
I come, the friend and champion of my sex:
I'll prove, ye fair, that, let us have our swing,
We can, as well as men, do any thing;
Nay, better too, perhaps-for now and then,
These times produce some bungling among men.
In spite of lordly wits-with force and ease,
Can't we write plays, or crush 'em, if we please?
The men, who grant not much, allow us charms-
Are eyes, shapes, dimples, then, our only arms?
To rule this man, cur sex dame Nature teaches;
Mount the high horse we can, and make long speeches.
Did not a lady knight, late chevalier,*
A brave, smart soldier to your eyes appear?
Hey! presto! pass! his sword becomes a fan,
A comely woman rising from the man.
The French their amazonian maid invite-
She goes-alike well skill'd to talk or write,
Dance, ride, negociate, scold, coquet, or fight.
If she should set her heart upon a rover,
And he prove false, she'd kick her faithless lover.
The Greeks and Romans own our boundless claim
The Muses, Graces, Virtues, Fortune, Fame,
Wisdom and Nature too, they women call;
With this sweet flatt'ry, yet they mix some gall
"Twill out-the Furies too are females all.
The pow'rs of Riches, Physic, War, and Wine,
Sleep, Death, and Devils too-are masculine.
Are we unfit to rule?-a poor suggestion!
Austria and Russia answer well that question.
If joy from sense and matchless grace arise,
With your own treasure, Britons, bless your eyes.
If such there are-sure, in an humbler way,
The sex, without much guilt, may write a play :
That they've done nobler things, there's no denial;
With all your judgment, then, prepare for trial-
Summon your critic pow'rs, your manhood summon,
A brave man will protect, not hurt, a woman;
Let us wish modestly to share with men,
If not the force, the feather of the pen.
Enter EDRIC and BIRTHA.
Bir. WHAT may this mean? Earl Douglas has enjoin'd thee
To meet him here in private?
Yes, my sister,
And this injunction have I oft receiv'd;
But when he comes, true to th' appointed hour,
He starts, looks wild, then drops ambiguous hints,
Frowns, hesitates, turns pale, and says 'twas no-
thing;
Then feigns to smile, and by his anxious care
Το prove himself at ease, betrays his pain.
Bir. Since my short sojourn here, I've mark'd this earl.
And though the ties of blood unite us closely,
I shudder at his haughtiness of temper,
Which not his gentle wife, the bright Elwina,
Can charm to rest. Ill are their spirits pair'd;
His heart's the seat of frenzy, hers of softness;
His love is transport, hers is trembling duty;
Rage in his soul is as the whirlwind fierce,
While hers ne'er felt the pow'r of that rude passion.
Ed. Perhaps the mighty soul of Douglas mourns, Because inglorious love detains him here,
While our bold knights, beneath the Christian standard,
Press to the bulwarks of Jerusalem.
Bir. Though every various charm adorns Elwina, And though the noble Douglas dotes to madness, Yet some dark mystery involves their fate: The canker grief devours Elwina's bloom, And on her brow meek resignation sits, Hopeless, yet uncomplaining.
Bir. Once, not long since, she thought herself
'Twas then the pent-up anguish burst its bounds; With broken voice, clasp'd hands, and streaming eyes,
She call'd upon her father, call'd him cruel,
And said her duty claim'd far other recompense.
Ed. Perhaps the absence of the good lord Raby,
Who, at her nuptials, quitting this fair castle,
Resign'd it to Elwina, thus afflicts her.
Hast thou e'er question'd her, good Birtha?
Bir.
But hitherto in vain, and yet she shews me
Th' endearing kindness of a sister's love;
But if I speak of Douglas-
See! he comes. It would offend him, should he find you here.
Doug. How! Edric and his sister in close conference?
Do they not seem alarm'd at my approach?
And see, how suddenly they part! Now, Edric,
[Exit BIRTHA. Was this well done? or was it like a friend, When I desir'd to meet thee here alone,
With all the warmth of trusting confidence,
To lay my bosom naked to thy view,
And shew thee all its weakness; was it well
To call thy sister here, to let her witness
Thy friend's infirmity ?-perhaps to tell her-
Ed. My lord, I could not tell; I nothing know. Doug. Nay, then, thou dost suspect there's some-thing wrong!
Ed. If we were bred from infancy together,
If I partook in all thy youthful griefs,
And every joy thou knew'st was doubly mine;
Then tell me all the secret of thy soul.
Or have these few short months of separation,
The only absence we have ever known,
Have these so rent the bands of love asunder,
That Douglas should distrust his Edric's truth?
Doug. My friend, I know thee faithful as thou'rt
brave,
And I will trust thee-but not now, good Edric;
"Tis past, 'tis gone, it is not worth the telling;
'Twas wrong to cherish what disturb'd my peace;
I'll think of it no more.
O, most wise promise!
I fear'd some hidden trouble vex'd your quiet.
In secret I have watch'd-
Doug.
A spy? employ'd, perhaps, to note my actions?
What have I said? Forgive me, thou art noble :
Yet do not press me to disclose my grief,
Ha! watch'd in secret?
For when thou know'st it, I perhaps shall hate thee As much, my Edric, as I hate myself
For my suspicions; I am ill at ease.
Ed. How will the fair Elwina grieve to hear it!
Doug. She grieve? Elwina grieve? thou'st touch'd
the string
That wakes me into madness. Hear me, then,
But let the deadly secret be secur'd
With bars of adamant in thy close breast.
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