University of Virginia Library

The EPILOGUE to the First Part.

So , Heaven be thank'd, the Play is at an end,
The best pretence it has to gain a friend.
But this designs to draw another on,
But you may damn 'em now both under one:
Faults to deserve it every Critick sees,
And they and we, both want no Enemies.
First all you Wits, who for some secret Crime,
Have taken up a pique against poor Rhime,
And you at present are no little store;
And next the Poets Foes, and they are more.
Then all whom Priests and Women Saints displease,
A small and trifling number—next to these,
(If any such can be) the pious Jew;
The frantique part of all our Nation too,
Fanaticks, who'll be angry with us all,
For ripping up their base Original;
Shewing their Sires, the Pharisees, from whom
They and their Cheat's by long succession come:
Whom they'r so like, the diff'rence duly priz'd,
Fanaticks are but Jews uncircumciz'd.
These Plays then must have luck to be long liv'd,
None e're for damning better were contriv'd.
What made the Poet on Jerus'lem fall?
A Tale of Sodom wou'd ha' pleas'd you all.
But he at shew and great Machines might aim,
Fine Chairs to carry Poetry when lame,
On Ropes instead of Raptures to relye,
When the sense creeps, to make the Actors flye.
These Tricks upon our Stage will never hit,
Our Company is for the old way of Wit.
Then Actors plaid on Nature's charge alone,
And only Poets then could be undone;
But now they lean so heavy on the Age,
One Blockhead Poet falling breaks a Stage.
Then Gentlemen for Plays so much distrest,
Naked of shew, by Enemies opprest,
The Poot begs the aid of all the brave;
And that he some pretence to it may have,
First for his Rhime he pardon does implore,
And promises to ring those Chimes no more:
Next for Jerus'lem, but with patience stay,
And you shall see it burnt in the next Play:
And last, to take away all sad Complaints,
These Plays debauch our Women into Saints,
Forgive it in the Plays, and we'll engage,
They shall be Saints no where but on the Stage.