 | The Injur'd Lovers : or, the Ambitious Father |  |
EPILOGUE, Spoken by Mr. JEVON.
My
Brother Mountfort in the Scene-Room sits,
To hear the Censure of your sharp quick Wits;
Expecting a most dreadful damning Doom:
My Third Day's past, but his, poor Soul's to come.
Encourage him, Faith do, 'tis Charity;
Poets, you know, are poor, and so are we:
Let this tho' give no Offence to'th' Brother-Writers;
But if it does, there's few of 'em are Fighters:
Those that are so, he does exclude his Pen,
For like Town Bully, he would know his Men.
He beggs but one thing, be not so uncivil,
To hear the Censure of your sharp quick Wits;
Expecting a most dreadful damning Doom:
My Third Day's past, but his, poor Soul's to come.
Encourage him, Faith do, 'tis Charity;
Poets, you know, are poor, and so are we:
Let this tho' give no Offence to'th' Brother-Writers;
But if it does, there's few of 'em are Fighters:
Those that are so, he does exclude his Pen,
For like Town Bully, he would know his Men.
To scan his Play, for then 'twill be the Devil:
Not but he dares stand by't, but to prevent Evil.
For Nice Sr. Courtly's so well bred, you know,
He would not question it, and pray don't you.
The Plot I'm sure is good, or if it be not, fye,
Your Chair-Men now a days plot Tragedy.
Pardon but this, and I will pawn my Life,
His next shall match my Devil of a Wife.
We'll grace it with the Imbellishment of Song and Dance;
We'll have the Monsieur once again from France,
72
He shall Divert you with his Riggadoone.
[Dances like him.
Pluck up de Petticoat above de Knee,
To shew de fine shew string and de dapper Thigh,
And not make one Blush, no begar not in one Lady:
With tawny Gullet, Face as ugly too,
As a fresh Awkard Covent-Garden Beau.
Hey de brave French Man Mon foy he can fly
Home again he has into his own Country.
So fare him well, of him no more,
But to the Poet, be kind to him, as I said before,
Else to stand by him, every Man has swore.
To Salisbury Court we'll hurry the next Week,
Where not for Whores but Coaches you may seek;
And more to plague you, there shall be no Play,
But the Emperor o'th' Moon for every Day.
FINIS.
| The Injur'd Lovers : or, the Ambitious Father | |