 | Thyestes |  |
Epilogue.
We shewed you in the Priests to day, a trueAnd perfect Picture of old Rome and new;
One Face serves both; Pagan and Popish Priests
Are but two names for the same bloody Beasts.
Wonder not Poets ne're with Priests agree,
For Priests invade the Poet's Property.
Lying belongs to Poets; as appears
By old Prescriptions of three thousand years;
And Priests permit none but themselves to lye,
Or those that do't by Church-Authority:
Nay, they'l impose their lyes on you for true,
Which honest Poets ne're presum'd to do.
They talk of being inspired, but do most care,
To have you be such Fools to think they are.
But when Priests meet in Councels, Synods, Classes,
They feign wou'd have you think Heaven Mounts the Asses.
The Devil rides 'em very oft 'tis true,
When he has any cursed work to do;
But they have this damn'd fault in ways of sin,
They run so fast the Devil can't hold 'em in.
Then haltes Priests, and tye 'em to the racks,
If you will keep the Devil off their backs:
But pray let Poets live, for they no ways
Offend you with damn'd Plots, but in their Plays,
And ask but half a Crown for holding forth,
And that's as much as any lye is worth.
FINIS.
| Thyestes | |