 | Henry the Sixth, The First part |  |
Epilogue.
Now some fine things perhaps you think to hear,But he who did reform this Play does swear
He'll not bestow rich Trappings on a Horse,
That will want Breath to run a Three-days Course;
And be turn'd off by Gallants of the Town,
For Citizens and their Wives to Hackney on.
Not that a Barb that's come of Shackspears breed,
Can e're want Mettle, Courage, Shape, or Speed;
But you have Poetry so long rides Post,
That your delight in Riding now is lost.
And there is Reason for it I must own,
I'ave Foundred all the Poets in the Town.
Alas, their Strength and Courage may abate,
Under the Critique's Spur, and the Fools Weight.
And Destiny is playing wanton Tricks,
Turning the Nation round to Politiques;
The Romish Beast has scar'd her from her Wits,
And thrown her in her old Convulsion Fits.
The same she had many Years since, 'tis said,
Then Poetry was a miserable Jade.
The Pulpit then Men fiercely did bestride,
And Musqueteers that Wooden Horse did ride.
Those damn'd Diseases by time purg'd away,
The Nation streight grew Young again and Gay.
Balls assign'd, as Masquerades and Plays,
Were all the Business of those happy Days.
You flock'd to Plays as if they Jubilees were,
Things to be seen but once in Fifty Year.
Boxes i'th' Morning did with Beauty shine,
And Citizens then in the Pit did Dine.
The Wife with her good Husband did prevail,
To bring the Sucking Bottle full of Ale.
Then on her Knees cold Capon-legs were seen,
Her Husbands Capon-legs I do not mean.
Then we were pretious things, purchas'd tis known,
By Cloaths and Suppers, but these Days are done.
Yet they will come again, Times cannot hold,
But whilst they mend, Curse on it we grow old;
Then we may all who once were your delight,
Sup with Duke Humphry as you have done to Night.
FINIS.
| Henry the Sixth, The First part | |