 | The Goblins |  |
64
Epilogue.
And how, and how, in faith,—a pretty plot;And smartly carried through too, was it not?
And the Devils, how, well? and the fighting,
Well too;—a foole, and't had bin just old writing.
O what a monster-wit must that man have,
That could please all which now their twelve pence gave:
High characters (cries one) and he would see
Things that ne're were, nor are, nor ne're will be.
Romances cries easie-soules, and then they sweare,
The Playe's well writ, though scarce a good line's there.
The Women—Oh if Stephen should be kil'd,
Or misse the Lady, how the plot is spil'd?
And into how many pieces a poore Play
Is taken still before the second day?
Like a strange Beauty newly come to Court;
And to say truth, good faith 'tis all the sport:
One will like all the ill things in a Play,
Another, some o'th' good, but the wrong way;
So from one poore Play there comes t'arise
At severall Tables, severall Comedies.
The ill is only here, that 't may fall out
In Plaies as Faces; and who goes about
To take asunder oft destroyes (we know)
What altogether made a pretty shew.
FINIS.
| The Goblins | |