University of Virginia Library

EPILOGUE.

Most Poets spread abroad an idle rumour,
They never found an Audience in good humour.
Our Poet, having tasted of your favour,
Swears it is false, and does his best endeavour
To keep you all his Friends;—Amen—for ever.
Tho' I have told him, with undaunted Spirit,
It was your Goodness only, not his Merit;
He Vows he knows not, (be the shame his own)
Worse Poets; and a better natur'd Town;
Some Criticks there may be, but those are few,
Not such Fine-well-drest Gentlemen, as You:
[To the side Boxes.
In finding fault lies all their dear delight,
And yet they read as little as they write.
If e'er they write, they let no Creature know it,
To the Pit, and side Boxes.
But keep the Poem, and conceal the Poet,
With as much pains as you would take to show it.
O! that some Envoy in behalf of Wit,
Would make a Truce with the tumultuous Pit:
But want of Treasure is our Stages curse,
And to Equip him, you must make the Purse.
A Peace with Criticks, is our Houses Pray'r;
Our Daughters, and our Wives—
Our maiden Actresses—if such there are,
Implore it from those unbelievers there.
Which if you should deny, we must no doubt,
Or shut up Shop—
Or shut our Journey-men, the Poets, out.
How would it balk an Author's expectation,
In these good times, to fail to please the Nation,
Now that good Wine is come again in fashion?
Beau's, our best Friends, we fear, will run to France,
And leave us fidling here, while there they dance.
Some now will say with a contracted brow,
So mad an ending to a mournful show—
Yet you have laught at Tragedies e're now;
And faith I think, it were not much amiss,
(With our good Author's leave) to laugh at this.
Ev'n Nature is her self a constant jest,
And the whole World, a Stage-Play at the best.