University of Virginia Library

EPILOGUE,

Spoken by Mr i s. Cook.
Now we expect to hear our rare Blades say
Dam' me, I see no Sense in this dull Play;
Tho much of it our abler Judges know,
Was famous Sense 'bove Forty Years ago.
Sometimes we fail to Please for want of Witt
Ith' Play—but more for want on't in the Pitt;
For many a ruin'd Poëts Work 'twou'd Save,
Had you but half the Sense you think you have.
Poets on your Fore-Fathers pam'd dull Plays,
And shrewdly you revenge it in our Days
In troth we fare by't as your Tradesmen do,
For whilst they raise Estates by Cheating You:
Into Acquaintance with their Wives you fall,
And get 'em Graceless Sons to spend it All.
'Tis plain Th'are Yours, Cause All our Arts miscarry,
For just like You, They'll Damn before they'll Marry.
Of honest Terms I now almost Despair,
Unless retriev'd by some rich Yeoman's Heir,
In Grannam's Ribbans and his Own streight Hair!
What Comforts such a Lover will afford,
Joynture, Dear Joynture, O the Heavenly Word!
But—E're of You my Sparks my Leave I take,
For your Unkindness past these Pray'rs I make—
So very Constant may Your Misses be,
'Till You grow Cloid for Want of Jealousie!
Into such Dullness may your Poëts Tire,
'Till They shall write such Plays as You Admire:
May You, instead of Gaming, Whoring, Drinking,
Be Doom'd to your Aversion—Books and Thinking:
And for a Last Wish—What I'm sure You'l Call
The Curse of Curses—Marriage Take ye All.