 | The Sophister |  |
The Epilogue, spoken by Invention.
Should this our Play on Common Stage appeare,Some of the ignorant multitude would sweare
That we chopt Logick; for such strains of Wit
They still like worse, the better they are writ.
But you, that fill this Orbe, whose ears have hung
Attentively upon each Actors tongue,
Who ken where the least string of Art is crackt,
Where the conceit is proper, and where rackt,
From whence a work is spun, out of what Fleece,
And know the Woof and Warp of the whole Piece;
The Sophister doth on your suffrage stand,
That for his grace, you would put to your Hand.
FINIS.
| The Sophister | |