 | Pyrrhus King of Epirus |  |
EPILOGUE.
In Summer every living thing on EarthSeems new created, and receives new Birth.
Beauties abroad their blooming Sweets display,
Flowers open, Fruit-trees blossom, Beau's are gay,
Summer's a time for all things—but a Play.
The Summer does the Labourers Harvest yield,
Fleets put to Sea, and Armies take the Field.
Bold was the Ship (so we are told by Horace)
Which first launch'd out, and this his tale makes for us.
For greater is the risk of Vent'rous Wit,
Which rashly dares an untry'd Bark commit
To the smooth Deep of a deceitful Pit
Yet you have been on these Occasions Kind,
And our Young Authour hopes from you to find
A flowing Tide, and favourable Wind.
Let me Plead for him then; Pray show him favour,
For if we lose him now, he's lost for ever.
Should He fail quite in this; I know his Nature,
Too bashful to attempt to mend the Matter:
Young Poets still their Modesty discover,
But theirs, like ours, or yours, is quickly over.
[To the Pit.
Let this, against your judgment stand the Test,
Show Mercy now, and judge him in the rest.
| Pyrrhus King of Epirus | |