The Ghost The Ghost or The Woman wears the Breeches. A Comedy Written in the Year MDCXL |
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EPILOGUE.
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 | The Ghost |  |
45
EPILOGUE.
Tis
done without Amen, or superstition,
Popes Bull, or the Committees inquisition:
Popes Bull, or the Committees inquisition:
What think ye now of Plays? Abominable:
Or is't'cause you want wit to unfold a Fable,
Pick out the Allegory, drive the sense
Where the Plot aims it: that your benevolence
Should clap us, and our mouths up. Confess, confess;
You would be something, and 'gainst Plays you press,
To be prickt down as States-men, not because
You do conceive um hurtfull, but will make Laws,
To undo the Gallants pastime of the Land:
Beats down because you cannot understand.
Or is't'cause you want wit to unfold a Fable,
Pick out the Allegory, drive the sense
Where the Plot aims it: that your benevolence
Should clap us, and our mouths up. Confess, confess;
You would be something, and 'gainst Plays you press,
To be prickt down as States-men, not because
You do conceive um hurtfull, but will make Laws,
To undo the Gallants pastime of the Land:
Beats down because you cannot understand.
Slow Readers, look upon the Roman State,
Whose high built frame the stars durst emulate,
And look as far as they. Ask Livie there,
How many worthies grac'd her Theatre:
They whose civility hath nurst us all;
Thought um most holy, stil'd um Tragical,
From their Gods Sacrifices. And must we,
Whose pollish'd Scene purg'd from obscenity
By Poets flaming fancies, whose bright rays
Consume scurrility, and fix the Bays
With us to fan profaness, drive away
Light chaff, that in pure colours, Scenes display.
When plots work high with contradictions fill'd,
Amazing you, how are they reconcil'd?
Must we I say be censur'd? Why 'tis your nature
To gaze at new things, adore the fashions altar.
Whose high built frame the stars durst emulate,
And look as far as they. Ask Livie there,
How many worthies grac'd her Theatre:
They whose civility hath nurst us all;
Thought um most holy, stil'd um Tragical,
From their Gods Sacrifices. And must we,
Whose pollish'd Scene purg'd from obscenity
By Poets flaming fancies, whose bright rays
Consume scurrility, and fix the Bays
46
Light chaff, that in pure colours, Scenes display.
When plots work high with contradictions fill'd,
Amazing you, how are they reconcil'd?
Must we I say be censur'd? Why 'tis your nature
To gaze at new things, adore the fashions altar.
No, more resist your own opinions. We
Will dress our Scenes with various novelty,
And teach you wit enough for eighteen pence
Above the reach of the Common Councils sense.
Try and persever, if you finde this true,
Silence your errours, and we are quit with you.
Will dress our Scenes with various novelty,
And teach you wit enough for eighteen pence
Above the reach of the Common Councils sense.
Try and persever, if you finde this true,
Silence your errours, and we are quit with you.
FINIS.
| The Ghost | |