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The EPILOGUE.
To Friends, or Foes, whatever Fortune sends him,Gallants, our Author thus, in short, commends him.
If from his present Dulness, Sirs, you fear
The Danger of his Writing once a Year,
To cure his future Itch of Writing Ill,
Now Headlong throw him to the Muses Hell.
But if from what you've seen, your Thoughts incline,
That any Sparks of Heat or Genius shine,
Let loose your Favours, wave Poetick Laws;
And to your Wishes, swell him with Applause.
| Xerxes | |