 | The Mulberry-Garden |  |
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Epilogue.
Poets of all men have the hardest Game,Their best Endeavours can no Favours claim.
The Lawyer, if o'rethrown, though by the Laws,
He quits himself, and lays it on your Cause.
The Souldier is esteem'd a Man of War,
And Honour gains, if he but bravely dare.
The grave Physitian, if his Patient dye,
He shakes his head, and blames Mortality.
Only poor Poets their own faults must bear,
Therefore grave Judges be not too severe:
Our Author humbly hopes to scape your Rage,
Being no known Offender on the Stage,
He came by chance, is a meer Traveller;
All Countries Civil unto Strangers are:
Yet faith he's arm'd how e're your Censures go,
And can prevent the harm, though not the blow.
No Poet can from this one Comfort fall,
The best ne're pleas'd, nor worst displeas'd you all.
FINIS.
| The Mulberry-Garden | |