 | Injured Virtue : or The Virgin Martyr |  |
EPILOGUE, Spoke by Mrs. Deyman.
Well
Sirs, since Custom holds, and 'tis the Vogue,
We guess, you expect to hear the Epilogue:
But this is such a criticizing Age,
I dare not for my Life presume to engage
In the Defence of our declining Stage.
And to be short, have nothing more to say,
But beg your kind Acceptance of our Play.
We own what's to its want of Merit due,
And are aw'd by every Excellence in you:
But from you generous Tempers hope to find,
Few, but what are, to insur'd Virtue, kind.
We guess, you expect to hear the Epilogue:
But this is such a criticizing Age,
I dare not for my Life presume to engage
In the Defence of our declining Stage.
And to be short, have nothing more to say,
But beg your kind Acceptance of our Play.
We own what's to its want of Merit due,
And are aw'd by every Excellence in you:
But from you generous Tempers hope to find,
Few, but what are, to insur'd Virtue, kind.
Some we expect will urge its want of Plot,
Wit, Stile, Correctness, and the Lord knows what:
To them, our Author says, Faith Now-a-days,
Few will take Pains to write for empty Praise,
Mony's the only Plot of all our Modern Plays.
Wit, Stile, Correctness, and the Lord knows what:
80
Few will take Pains to write for empty Praise,
Mony's the only Plot of all our Modern Plays.
If there are any Criticks here to Night,
Who are resolv'd to damn the Play for spight;
Ladies, we hope you'll do the Author right.
Vouchsafe your Smiles and Approbation here;
You throw their Malice far beneath his Care,
Nay, they must be asham'd, and disappear.
For they, just like our train'd Militia Men,
Their Valour of the true Wild-Irish Strain;
Who from a Valiant Foe like Lightning fled,
Dare come like Thunder back to mount the Dead.
Who are resolv'd to damn the Play for spight;
Ladies, we hope you'll do the Author right.
Vouchsafe your Smiles and Approbation here;
You throw their Malice far beneath his Care,
Nay, they must be asham'd, and disappear.
For they, just like our train'd Militia Men,
Their Valour of the true Wild-Irish Strain;
Who from a Valiant Foe like Lightning fled,
Dare come like Thunder back to mount the Dead.
FINIS.
| Injured Virtue : or The Virgin Martyr | |