Epilogue To Tancred And Sigismunda Poem Rhyme Scheme and Analysis
Rhyme Scheme: AABBCCDE F GGHHBBIJKKLLBBHHMNOO PPQQBBRR| Cramm'd to the throat with wholesome moral stuff | A |
| Alas poor audience you have had enough | A |
| Was ever hapless heroine of a play | B |
| In such a piteous plight as ours to day | B |
| Was ever woman so by love betray'd | C |
| Match'd with two husbands and yet die a maid | C |
| But bless me hold What sounds are these I hear | D |
| I see the Tragic Muse herself appear | E |
| - | |
| The back scene opens and discovers a romantic sylvan landscape from which Mrs Cibber in the character of the Tragic Muse advances slowly to music and speaks the following lines | F |
| - | |
| Hence with your flippant epilogue that tries | G |
| To wipe the virtuous tear from British eyes | G |
| That dares my moral tragic scene profane | H |
| With strains at best unsuiting light and vain | H |
| Hence from the pure unsullied beams that play | B |
| In yon fair eyes where virtue shines Away | B |
| Britons to you from chaste Castalian groves | I |
| Where dwell the tender oft unhappy loves | J |
| Where shades of heroes roam each mighty name | K |
| And court my aid to rise again to fame | K |
| To you I come to Freedom's noblest seat | L |
| And in Britannia fix my last retreat | L |
| In Greece and Rome I watch'd the public weal | B |
| The purple tyrant trembled at my steel | B |
| Nor did I less o'er private sorrows reign | H |
| And mend the melting heart with softer pain | H |
| On France and you then rose my brightening star | M |
| With social ray The arts are ne'er at war | N |
| O as your fire and genius stronger blaze | O |
| As yours are generous Freedom's bolder lays | O |
| Let not the Gallic taste leave yours behind | P |
| In decent manners and in life refined | P |
| Banish the motley mode to tag low verse | Q |
| The laughing ballad to the mournful hearse | Q |
| When through five acts your hearts have learnt to glow | B |
| Touch'd with the sacred force of honest woe | B |
| O keep the dear impression on your breast | R |
| Nor idly loose it for a wretched jest | R |
James Thomson
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