 | The Rival Kings : or The Loves of Oroondates and Statira |  |
54
EPILOGUE.
Your
looks already have begun to name,
Which was the most, we, or the Play too blame:
With faults of ours good natures may dispence,
But justly tax the Poets want of Sence.
That after your lov'd Alexander dare
Which was the most, we, or the Play too blame:
With faults of ours good natures may dispence,
But justly tax the Poets want of Sence.
Bring this with all your likings to compare,
A Play with Scenes and Acting so admir'd,
As if the Souls they play'd had them inspir'd.
So 'tis with her that has an ugly face,
Proud of false charmes, and her affected grace,
Sits by some cry'd up Beauty of the Town,
And imitates each glance that's not her own,
And when some Gallant from the Pit doth bow,
O how she snatches it and court'sies low!
The careless Beauty then sits by the while,
Kills with a frown and raises with a smile;—
Yet this excuse, upon the Authors score,
This though come last, was writ a year before.
Lik't as you please the great Dons of our House,
Themselves would fain have had the Play from us,
But frankly and generously our Author stakes
His purse and credit rather for our sakes.
Be but so kind as he to us has been,
In hopes to further merit he'l begin
And save the trembling Soul that waits within.
To th'Ladies, to you Wits he now does call,
For like a drowning man he catches at you all.
Spare him this once, and save him now perplext,
And he'l turn Bully Poet by the next.
FINIS.
| The Rival Kings : or The Loves of Oroondates and Statira | |