Address Spoken By Miss Fontenelle
STILL
anxious
to
secure
your
partial
favour,
And
not
less
anxious,
sure,
this
night,
than
ever,
A
Prologue,
Epilogue,
or
some
such
matter,
'Twould
vamp
my
bill,
said
I,
if
nothing
better;
So
sought
a
poet,
roosted
near
the
skies,
Told
him
I
came
to
feast
my
curious
eyes;
Said,
nothing
like
his
works
was
ever
printed;
And
last,
my
prologue-business
slily
hinted.
"Ma'am,
let
me
tell
you,"
quoth
my
man
of
rhymes,
"I
know
your
bent—these
are
no
laughing
times:
Can
you—but,
Miss,
I
own
I
have
my
fears—
Dissolve
in
pause,
and
sentimental
tears;
With
laden
sighs,
and
solemn-rounded
sentence,
Rouse
from
his
sluggish
slumbers,
fell
Repentance;
Paint
Vengeance
as
he
takes
his
horrid
stand,
Waving
on
high
the
desolating
brand,
Calling
the
storms
to
bear
him
o'er
a
guilty
land?"
I
could
no
more—askance
the
creature
eyeing,
"D'ye
think,"
said
I,
"this
face
was
made
for
crying?
I'll
laugh,
that's
poz—nay
more,
the
world
shall
know
it;
And
so,
your
servant!
gloomy
Master
Poet!"
Firm
as
my
creed,
Sirs,
'tis
my
fix'd
belief,
That
Misery's
another
word
for
Grief:
I
also
think—so
may
I
be
a
bride!
That
so
much
laughter,
so
much
life
enjoy'd.
Thou
man
of
crazy
care
and
ceaseless
sigh,
Still
under
bleak
Misfortune's
blasting
eye;
Doom'd
to
that
sorest
task
of
man
alive—
To
make
three
guineas
do
the
work
of
five:
Laugh
in
Misfortune's
face—the
beldam
witch!
Say,
you'll
be
merry,
tho'
you
can't
be
rich.
Thou
other
man
of
care,
the
wretch
in
love,
Who
long
with
jiltish
airs
and
arts
hast
strove;
Who,
as
the
boughs
all
temptingly
project,
Measur'st
in
desperate
thought—a
rope—thy
neck—
Or,
where
the
beetling
cliff
o'erhangs
the
deep,
Peerest
to
meditate
the
healing
leap:
Would'st
thou
be
cur'd,
thou
silly,
moping
elf?
Laugh
at
her
follies—laugh
e'en
at
thyself:
Learn
to
despise
those
frowns
now
so
terrific,
And
love
a
kinder—that's
your
grand
specific.
To
sum
up
all,
be
merry,
I
advise;
And
as
we're
merry,
may
we
still
be
wise.
