University of Virginia Library

The Epilogue. Spoken by Thersites.
These cruel Critiques put me into passion;
For in their lowring looks I reade damnation:
Ye expect a Satyr, and I seldom fail,
When I'm first beaten, 'tis my part to rail.
You British fools, of the Old Trojan stock,
That stand so thick one cannot miss the flock,
Poets have cause to dread a keeping Pit,
When Womens Cullyes come to judge of Wit.
As we strow Rats-bane when we vermine fear,
'Twere worth our cost to scatter fool-bane here.
And after all our judging Fops were serv'd,
Dull Poets too shou'd have a dose reserv'd,
Such Reprobates, as past all sence of shaming
Write on, and nere are satisfy'd with damning,
Next, those, to whom the Stage does not belong
Such whose Vocation onely is to Song;
At most to Prologue, when for want of time
Poets take in for Journywork in Rhime.
But I want curses for those mighty shoales,
Of scribling Chlorisses, and Phillis fools,
Those Ophs shou'd be restraind, during their lives,
From Pen and Ink, as Madmen are from knives:
I cou'd rayl on, but 'twere a task as vain
As Preaching truth at Rome, or wit in Spain,
Yet to huff out our Play was worth my trying,
John Lilbourn scap'd his Judges by defying:
If guilty, yet I'm sure oth' Churches blessing,
By suffering for the Plot, without confessing.