 | The City-Ramble : or, A Play-house Wedding |  |
THE EPILOGUE.
'Tis hard our drudging Author's no small Pains,Joyn'd too with some of Fletcher's labour'd Scenes,
Should thus unhappily be thrown away
Rigg'd out a hopeless long Vacation Play.
The Fate of Scriblers now is all Dependant
Upon the Ruling Lords of their Ascendant.
'Tis not what's writ, but they that write, now please:
The Favourite Brow must only wear our Bays.
He that sets up the Town and Stage's Darling,
His very Name gives All the stamp of Sterling.
A slighted Poet's Muse may well look cloudy,
For 'tis the Father makes the Brat a Dowdy.
Fie, Gentlemen, you baulk your own Delights
In being over-nice what or who writes,
This or that Author; empty Names! Ne'er mind 'em,
But take the Muses Labours as you find 'em.
| The City-Ramble : or, A Play-house Wedding | |