University of Virginia Library

EPILOGUE.

Expect no Fawning, Sirs! the Poet's Champion, I,
Have sworn to stand, and every Judge defy.
But you the bullying Criticks I'll not name,
Judges, whose only Business is to damn.
Howe'er we thought you once, the Wise and Strong,
Know we have born your Impotence too long.
You that above your Sires presume to soar,
And are but Copies daub'd by Miniature;
You that have nothing right in Heart or Tongue,
But only to be resolute and wrong;
False is your Wit and Judgment now, I swear
By all the Virgins of each Theater:
The Poets for the future shall not stand,
Like Shrovetide Cocks, the Pault of every Hand:
Nor let the purblind Critick Sentence pass,
That shoots the Beauties thro' an Optick Glass.
Nor barbarous Noises from the Gallery come,
Nor Mask below to clap or hiss presume:
Let the Miss cackle at the Fops that flout her,
Or cluck the Squires that hovering peep about her.
—For the great Dons of Wit,
To them is given full Privilege alone
To damn all others, and cry up their own.
The Ladies in their Eyes a killing Pow'r bear,
They can destroy; but nobler 'tis to spare.
Therefore he hopes these tender Scenes will move
And please the Fair, and they indulgent prove,
To LOVE and LIBERTY, as Liberty they Love.