 | Frederick, Duke of Brunswick-Lunenburgh |  |
EPILOGUE, By a Friend.
Well
, Sirs! the Play's now over, what think you on't?
Be sure judge right,—Wagers are laid upon't!
Friends to the Brunswick Hero say, 'twill run;
Others cry out—Poor Author! thou'rt undone!
The Subject cannot fail, says one, to take;
T'other finds Fault, and damns for Damning Sake.
Whom o'the two to credit's hard to know;
Three Days howe'er will the great Myst'ry show.
Then we shall see which Party's in the Right:
The honest Patriot, or the Jacobite.
Well,—after this sad Tale, you're set a-gog
Be sure judge right,—Wagers are laid upon't!
Friends to the Brunswick Hero say, 'twill run;
Others cry out—Poor Author! thou'rt undone!
The Subject cannot fail, says one, to take;
T'other finds Fault, and damns for Damning Sake.
Whom o'the two to credit's hard to know;
Three Days howe'er will the great Myst'ry show.
Then we shall see which Party's in the Right:
The honest Patriot, or the Jacobite.
To hear a smart and witty Epilogue:
Faith, you're deceiv'd;—We're in too sullen Mood,
To say,—or even do, a Thing that's good.
Behind—our Female Author trembling stands,
Waiting her Doom, or Plaudit at your Hands.
Of late, the Buskin so successless proves,
And Pantomimes so much engage your Loves;
She comes with Fear, yet hopes Great Frederick's Name,
And Pity to her Sex, will spare her Fame:
His hapless Fate in all must Pity move:
None sure the Fall of Virtue can approve;
Each tender Maid must sympathize with Woe.
Since then the Lines a Female Pencil drew,
With Man-like Tenderness her Labour view.
What say you Beaux? Be kind, and grant my Suit;
The Ladies all, I know, of Course will do't;
Shew that you're pleas'd to put us out of Pain;
And One and All to Morrow come again.
| Frederick, Duke of Brunswick-Lunenburgh | |