 | Mithridates, King of Pontus |  |
78
Epilogue, by Mr. Dryden.
Yo've seen a Pair of faithful Lovers die:And much you care; for, most of you will cry,
'Twas a just Judgment on their Constancy.
For, Heav'n be thank'd, we live in such an Age
When no man dies for Love, but on the Stage:
And ev'n those Martyrs are but rare in Plays;
A cursed sign how much true Faith decays.
Love is no more a violent desire;
'Tis a meer Metaphor, a painted Fire.
In all our Sex, the name examin'd well,
Is Pride, to gain; and Vanity to tell:
In Woman, 'tis of subtil int'rest made,
Curse on the Punk that made it first a Trade!
She first did Wits Prerogative remove,
And made a Fool presume to prate of Love.
Let Honour and Preferment go for Gold;
But glorious Beauty is not to be sold:
Or, if it be, 'tis at a rate so high,
That nothing but adoring it shou'd buy.
Yet the rich Cullies may their boasting spare;
They purchase but sophisticated Ware.
'Tis Prodigality that buys deceit;
Where both the Giver, and the Taker cheat.
Men but refine on the old Half-Crown way:
And Women fight, like Swizzers, for their Pay.
| Mithridates, King of Pontus | |