University of Virginia Library

EPILOGUE.

To a cloy'd lover, with his Mistress tyr'd,
How pall'd she seems, who once was so desir'd?
He Shuns her sight, and when she comes to sin,
Damn her, he cries, tell her I'm not within:
So nauseous and unpleasant now are grown
All the delights of wit to this cloyd Town.
Nowon Religious Brawls your time you spend;
When sinners grow devout, they're near their end.
The Nation, of a natural humour Gay,
That in vile Pamphlets does begin to pray
The ayd of Rascals for her sickly State,
Is in a malady as desperate
As the young Spark, who late Religion scorn'd,
Grown deadly sick, is a Fanatick turn'd,
And begs, in bits o' Paper up and down,
The Prayers of all the Godly of the Town.
Oh! we are sick, at least our brains are bad,
England is ne're devout till it is mad.
Our Fathers to their cost did find it so,
And small things will make mad men fight, you know.
Oh! what a Bedlam once was this sweet place,
When graceless Rogues did Fight about free-grace?
And wilful Fools wou'd obstinately spill
His bloud, who durst say man had a free will?
Of all our Civil broyles, those we have shewn
To day, our Nation with least shame may own.
For Subjects then for loyalty did fight,
And Princes to maintain their Royal Right.
Yet those rich Ornaments were very far
From gracing that fowl Monster Civil-War.
How ugly then she is when ridden blind,
With Pope before, but Presbyter behind?
Such a poor Nation's case is very evil:
Those two wou'd ride a Kingdom to the Devil.
Learn then, by what you have beheld to day,
To keep your wit, and money whilest you may;
Better at Dice to throw away your Wealth,
Your time at cursed Plays, with Punks your health,
Than by damn'd senseless bloudy strifes, about
No one knows what, be trod on by the Rout,
Have your Wealth plunder'd, and your brains beat our,
And dye like Jesuites to be thought devout.