 | The Female Rebelion |  |
84
EPILOGUE.
Since the same fate doth stage & state befall,That who dislike White fryars hate White-hall;
Wid'ning with Calumnys this double breach,
Drawn by the nose thrô which their brethern preach.
That snarl at Kings, as th'Attic cur did snub
The mighty Macedon, and from a Tub:
Such foes this writer aim'd by a safe stile,
At least to silence if not reconcile;
And so perhaps has forfeited their Praise,
Who like the Faults both of the times & Plays.
For of wits small shot here had been less dearth,
Would he have us'd all the lew'd helps to mirth;
But 'cause sick minds love what feeds their disease,
He thinks he has not writ so ill to please.
Yet Wits a Mercury we must correct,
Or else instead of healing 'twill infect;
Its own preparers often feel the pain,
That venoms apt to seiz[e] upon the brain.
Cheifly contagious to the purest mold,
Discolouring that which in the mouth was gold.
Your smiles, then, he'll ne're purchase at the price
Of shame, nor suffer Fame for witty Vice.
Wearing the Poets prize for Panders phrase,
As a black tongue that's salt is dress'd with Bays.
He rather will endure your sharpest rod,
Then with old Greece, take laughter for his God.
| The Female Rebelion | |