 | Boadicea Queen of Britain |  |
EPILOGUE. Spoke by Mrs. Bowman.
Who of you all can guess a Poet's trouble,Which is in these Religious Days grown double?
Once only smutty Jests could please the Town,
But now (Heav'n help our Trade,) they'll not go down.
Our Liberties this hard restraint infringes;
For all our Authors are beside their Hinges.
You Sparks, who knew the Story of this Play,
Thought to have seen two Ravish'd Maids to day.
But by our Bashful Youth one half is stifl'd,
My Sister only (to my sorrow) rifl'd.
Pray, tell me, Gentlemen, and tell me true,
Might not I well have claim'd that kindness too?
Maids may indeed in such a case Miscarry,
But what are Rapes to us wise Folks that Marry?
Thieves may bolt easily into open Houses,
And Force will still excuse us to our Spouses.
Stay—on my Conscience now, our Author knew,
The way to please, was to save one for you.
Pray, after such an Obligation, speak;
Can you do too much for the Poet's sake?
And yet he doubts the worst, and is asham'd
Before-hand, of the Fate of being damn'd;
Ease him, by your applause, of his suspicion,
And think, one day it may be your Condition.
For Fortune is her self a very Woman,
And Human Chance to all alike is Common,
Masks, Beaus, and Criticks, will be true to No Man.
| Boadicea Queen of Britain | |