![]() | Rotherick O'Connor, King of Connaught | ![]() |
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EPILOGUE By Hercules Davis Esq; Design'd to have been spoke by Mr. Griffith, if all the Persons in the Play had been kill'd.
What , are they all destoy'd, pray look around,Can none to speak the Epilogue be found.
Not one by Jove! Hey day—Then I must try,
How far will reach my Stock of Poetry.
So then, let's think—No! I shall want no Time;
For such a Scene as this, will teach to Rythme.
And thus I do proceed.
The Poet has to please you, done his best;
But to keep one alive, had been a Jest,
For if he had done that, both He and I,
Conceiv'd you'd call the Play, a Comedy.
That is not all the Thing, that brings me here,
But that poor Charles is lying in Despair,
And will be soon as dead as any there.
Unless bright Nymphs, who in the Circle sit,
Command some Mercy from Th'adoring Pit.
For well we know, to you they Homage pay,
And none but you their biteing Tongues can sway:
Love is the thing, will hardest Hearts subdue;
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To you bright Charmers of the blooming Age,
Who ev'ry Creature round you can engage
To you, who in your riper Years can move,
And thaw an Icy Stoick into Love.
To you we humbly sue and thus complain;
Be you our Friends, the Pit we're sure to gain,
They are just what you make 'em still we find;
They never can be, when you smile unkind.
Going off he returns and says.
Provided you will be here on Monday Night,
they will come all alive again for the Benefit of the
Author.
![]() | Rotherick O'Connor, King of Connaught | ![]() |