 | Merope |  |
309
EPILOGUE.
By Aaron Hill, Esq;Intended to have been spoken.
Of all the tricks these Poets bring in vague,
Methinks their strangest whim is Epilogue.
Hard task on us poor Damsels of the Stage!
An Author's faint Endeavours fire your rage;
And when that rage inflames you to abhor him,
He pops in one of us to cool you for him.
'Tis an ungentle treatment to perplex
With strongest danger thus the weakest sex.
Troth one would think—but Custom's hard to stem—
That They should do for Us, not We for Them.
But be it so—I care not, tho' I venture,
Could I but see on what soft side to enter.
Grave Gentlemen, some of ye look so sadly,
That, troth, I fear I shall come off but badly.
Yet, hang it, I've begun—Th'event I'll try;
And if I'm doom'd to fall, why, there I'll lie.
For our new Author then, and for his Play,
I have one vast important truth to say;
Smile on his hopes—Do—for my sake forbear him;
Not that my wishes bid your justice spare him:
But, should you not, you would but make me trouble:
He'll write till you approve, and plague me double.
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