University of Virginia Library

EPILOGUE.

Well , Sirs! Your kind Opinion now, I pray,
Of this our neither Whig nor Tory-Play;
To blow such Coales our Conscious Muse denies;
Wit, Sacred Wit, such Subjects should despise.
The Author saies his Heliconian stream,
Is not yet drain'd to such a low extream.
To abuse one Party with a Cursed Play,
And Bribe the other for a large third Day.
Like Gladiators then, you streight resort;
And Crowd to make your Nero-Faction sport.
But what's more strange, that Men of sense shou'd do it!
For Worrying one another, Pay the Poet:
So Butchers at a Baiting, take delight,
For him that keeps the Bears, to Roar and Fight;
Both Friends and Foes, such Authors make their Game,
Who have your Money, that was all their Ayme:
No matter for the Play, nor for their Wit;
The better Farce is Acted in the Pit.
Both Parties to be cheated, well agree;
And swallow any Nonsense, so it be
With Faction fac'd, and guilt with Loyalty.
Here's such a Rout with Whigging and with Torying,
That you neglect your dear-lov'd sin of Whoring:
The Visor-mask, that ventur'd her Half-Crown,
Finding no hopes but here to be undone;
Like a Cast Mistress, past her dear-delight,
Turns Godly streight, and goes to Church in spite;
And does not doubt, since you are grown so fickle,
To find more Cullies in a Conventicle.
We on the Stage stand still, and are content,
To see you Act what we should Represent.
You use us like the Women that you Woe;
You make us sport, and Pay us for it too.
Well, w'are resolv'd that in our next Play-Bill,
To Print at large a Tryal of your skill;
And that five hundred Monsters are to fight,
Then more will run to see so strange a sight,
Than the Morocco, or the Muscovite.