University of Virginia Library

Epilogue.

Thrice happy they that never writ before;
How pleas'd and bold they quit the safer shore:
Like some new Captain of the City Bands,
That with big looks in Finsbury Commands,
Swell'd, with huge Ale he cries, beat, beat a Drum,
Pox o' the French-King, uds bud let him come:
Give me ten thousand Redcoats, and alloo,
We'll firk his Crequi and his Conde too.
Thus the young Scriblers, Mankinds sense disdain;
For ignorance is sure to make 'em vain,
But far from Vanity, or dang'rous pride;
Our cautious Poet courts you to his side:
For why should you be scorn'd, to whom are due,
All the good days that ever Authors knew.
If ever gay 'tis you that make 'em fine;
The Pit and Boxes make the Poet dine,
And he scarce drinks but of the Criticks Wine.
Old Writers should not for vain glory strive
But like old Mistresses think how to thrive,
Be fond of ev'ry thing their Keepers say,
At least till they can live without a Play.
Like one that knows the Trade, and has been bit;
She doats and fawns upon her wealthy Cit;
And swears she loves him meerly for his Wit.
Another more untaught than a Walloon,
Antick and ugly, like an old Baboon;
She swears is an accomplisht Beau-garson,
Turns with all winds, and sails with all desires;
All hearts in City, Town, and Court, she fires,
Young callow Lords, lean Knights, and driv'ling Squires.
She in resistless flattery finds her ends,
Gives thanks for Fools, and makes ye all her Friends,
So should wise Poets sooth an awkard Age,
For they are Prostitutes upon the Stage:
To stand on points were foolish and ill-bred,
As for a Lady to be nice in Bed:
Your wills alone must their performance measure,
And you may turn 'em ev'ry way for pleasure.