University of Virginia Library

EPILOGUE. By Mr. Ravenscroft.

Our Poet to the learned Criticks does submit,
But scorns those little Vermine in the Pit,
Who noise and nonsense vent instead of Wit:
Those Aierie empty Sparks that know no more
Than how to dress and railly with a Whore;
Nay all they say to 'em is perfect cant,
And Vizord still runs down the weak Gallant:
Vext at her Repartee, he stroaks his Wig,
And cries, Dam me, you Whore you, I'll unrig:
Then cursing her, he leaves her to the rest
O'th' Fops—
Or tears a Hood and Scarf to make a jeast.
Whence have these silly Monsters their pretence,
That they should Judges be of Wit and Sence?
These Gnats about a Poets Ears may swarm,
But want a Sting to do him any harm.