University of Virginia Library

EPILOGUE to Alexander the Great,

What e're they mean, yet ought they to be curst,
Who this Censorious Age did polish first:
Who the best Play, for one poor Errour blame,
As Priests against our Ladies Arts declaim,
And for one Patch, both Soul and Body damn.
But what does more provoke the Actors rage,
(For we must show the grievance of the stage)
Is, that our Women who adorn each Play
Bred at our cost, become at length your Prey:
While green, and sour, likes Trees we bear 'em all,
But when they're mellow straight to you they fall:
You watch 'em bare and squab, and let 'em rest;
But with the first young down, you snatch the Nest.
Pray leave these poaching tricks, if you are wise,
E're we take out our Letters of Reprize.
For we have vow'd to find a sort of Toys
Known to black Fryars, a Tribe of choopping Boys:
If once they come, they'l quickly spoil your sport;
There's not one Lady will receive your Court:
But for the Youth in Petticoats run wild,
With oh the archest Wagg, the sweetest Child.
The panting Breasts, white Hands and little Feet
No more shall your pall'd thoughts with pleasure meet.
The Woman in Boys Cloaths, all Boy shall be,
And never raise your thoughts above the Knee.
Well, if our Women knew how false you are,
They wou'd stay here, and this new trouble spare:
Poor Souls, they think all Gospel you relate,
Charm'd with the noise of sett'ling an Estate:
But when, at last, your Appetites are full,
And the tir'd Cupid grows, with action, dull;
You'l find some trick to cut off the Entail,
And send 'em back to us, all worn and stale.
Perhaps they'l find our Stage, while they have rang'd
To some vile canting Conventicle, chang'd:
Where, for the Sparks who once resorted there
With their curl'd Wigs that scented all the Air,
They'l see grave Blockheads with short greasie Hair.
Green-Aprons, steeple-Hats, and Collar-Bands;
Dull sniv'ling Rogues that wring, not clap, their Hands:
Where, for gay Punks that drew the shining Crowd,
And Misses that, in Vizard, laught aloud;
They'l hear young Sisters sigh, see Matrons old
To their chop't Cheeks their pick'led Kerchers hold;
Whose Zeal too, might perswade, in spight to you,
Our flying Angels, to augment their Crew:
While Farringdon their Hero struts about 'em,
And ne're a damning Critick dares to flout 'em.