 | The Chances |  |
63
EPILOGUE.
Perhaps you Gentlemen, expect to dayThe Author of this fag end of a Play
According to the Modern way of Wit
Shou'd strive to be before-hand with the Pit,
Begin to rail at you, and subtly to
Prevent th'affront by giving the first blow.
He wants not Presidents, which often sway
In matters far more weighty than a Play:
But he no grave admirer of a Rule,
Won't by Example learn to play the fool.
The end of Plays should be to entertain,
And not to keep the Auditors in pain.
Giving our price, and for what trash we please,
He thinks the Play being done, you should have ease.
No Wit, no Sence, no Freedom, and a Box,
Is much like paying money for the Stocks.
Besides the Author dreads the strut and meen
Of new prais'd Poets, having often seen
Some of his Fellows, who have writ before,
When Nel has danc'd her Fig, steal to the Door,
Hear the Pit clap, and with conceit of that
Swell, and believe themselves the Lord knows what.
Most Writers now adays are grown so vain,
That once approv'd, they write, and write again,
Till they have writ away the Fame they got;
Our Friend this way of writing fancies not,
And hopes you will not tempt him with your Praise,
To rank himself with some that write new Plays:
For he knows ways enough to be undone
Without the help of Poetry for one.
FINIS.
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