 | Herod the Great |  |
41
THE EPILOGUE.
Our Poet wishes, as I heard him say,That all your Criticks would condemn his Play;
Since if for him that kindness you will do,
He'll leave off Writing, and turn Critick too:
He'll find it then a thing of more delight,
To damn a hundred Plays, than one to write.
Into your mode he'll quickly too have got,
Of finding fault where there is cause or not;
Nay be more pleas'd at all your Plays to hiss,
Than but to Night to have your Claps at this.
He knows, as well as you, 'tis easier far,
To be the Judge than Pris'ner at the Bar.
He's yet good-natur'd, for he ne'er was known
To hiss at Plays, though worse than are his own:
Troth, urge him not, for sweetest Wines, you know,
Ill us'd, to sharpest Vinegar will grow:
And there's no Tyrant's Rage so fiercely burns,
As a hiss'd Poet's, when he Critick turns.
Then to this Play let your Applause be shown,
If not for Justice sake, yet for your own.
FINIS.
| Herod the Great | |