University of Virginia Library

EPILOGUE.

How many has our Rhimer kill'd to day?
What need of Siege and Conquest in a Play,
When Love can do the work as well as they?
Yet 'tis such Love as you've scarce met before:
Such Love I'm sure as English ground ne're bore.
Had half the injur'd Ladys of this Age,
His Roxolana's kindness, and her Rage,
What heaps on heaps of Female-suff'rers here,
Would your good Men make Martyrs in one year?
But thanks to Heav'n you've not her fond Disease:
E'ne let 'em range and wander where they please;
You're not such Fools to think of Poysoning yet;
You want her Love, but you have twice her Wit.
Dying's a Mode your wiser thoughts contemn:
You've a more pleasing way to punish 'em.
And should our Brood of Gallants take this rule,
And turn such Lovers as his Persian Fool,
Kind Husband then might peaceably discover
An Assignation made 'twixt Spouse and Lover.
Leave you at Cribbedge, let you see a Play,
Or take the Ayre in a fair Summers day;
Let you stay out in Masquerade whole Nights,
With twenty other Innocent delights,
And no harm done.—And yet how wilde soe're
The humours of this brisk mad Age appear,
'Tis ten to one but th'Author still will say,
Your Vertues were the patterns of his Play;
And swear you down,
His Love and Honour both were stol'n from you;
And from your Features he his Heroes drew.
There's ne're a Comick Writer but will say,
You're all of you the Patterns of his Play:
Yet takes your Pictures at so damn'd a light;
Paints you so Ugly, that your Looks would fright.
And yet their Plays are your most dear delight.
Why in your hearts may not th'Heroicks share?
Those make you worse, these better than you are.
And Flatt'rers sure should not successless prove,
When those that do abuse you have your Love.