University of Virginia Library

EPILOGUE TO THE Court of Augustus Cæsar. Spoken by Mr. Haynes.

Your Servant, Gentlemen: 'tis a long time
Since I had th'honour to converse with you in Rhime;
They told me at t'other House y' had left us quite,
And I was going to hang my self out-right,
But for the hopes of pleasing you to Night:
For what's insipid life to them or me,
Without the favour of your Company?
Good Faith I'm very glad to see you here,
'Tis well you can at a New Play appear:
This Winter you forsaking all the Old,
Kept up one while of a damn'd Pockie Cold;
Some few came here, but who, the Lord can tell,
All were shrunk up like Snails within their shell;
Huge Brandenburgh had so disguis'd each one,
That from your Coachman you could scarce be known;
And then you droopt as if half-drown'd you came
Scap'd from North-Holland or from Amsterdam;
And Cough'd, Heav'n save you! with as grave a motion,
As you had been at Church, where 'tis Devotion.
The Ladies too neglecting every Grace,
Mob'd up in Night-cloaths came with Lace to face,
The Towre upon the Forehead all turn'd back,
And stuck with Pins like th'Man ith' Almanack.
The Misses, those delights of humane kind,
No longer in their dear Side-boxes shin'd,
Put each to Chamber-practice did retire,
With Ale and Apples, and a Sea-coal fire:
Now this misfortune we by yours have found,
Your Cold still sticks by us though you are sound
But Sirs, what makes it now so hard I pray
To get you here but just at a New Play?
We've Play'd t'oblige you all that's in our pow'rs,
We've Play'd and Play'd our selves e'en out of doors,
And yet we cannot find one way to win ye;
You're grown so nice, I think the Devil's in ye.
But hold, there's one way yet to get your praise,
Ill treating you your appetites may raise;
Libels and Lampoons we for Plays must write,
Criticks like Lovers pal'd with their delight;
Always esteem those kisses best that bite.
We'l deal with you, Gallants, in your own way,
And treat you like those Punks that Love for pay;
Cartwright and I dress'd like two thund'ring Whores,
With Rods will stand behind that Play-house doors,
And firk you up each day to pleasure duly.
As Jenny Cromwell does, or Betty Buly.