University of Virginia Library

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EPILOGUE. Suppos'd to be spoken by a Woman.

You'll think, perhaps, I'm thro' good Nature come
T'excuse our Author, and avert his Doom;
Hang him; 'tis no such Matter, I assure ye;
Criticks, I leave the Scribler to your Fury:
But, I forewarn you, e're you loose your Rage,
That a whole Nest of Hornets you engage!
For tho' on him, alone, you make th'Attack,
You'll bring his Brethren all, upon your Back:
They, one and all, will stand in the Defence
Of Freedom, 'gainst the Tyranny of Sense;
They've knock'd the Shackles off, of Place and Time,
And in their Songs, alone, are tied to Rhime;
The Towns Indulgence, gives their Genius Scope,
And all now write like any Thing, but—Pope.
He dares not taste the Sweets of being Free,
And Sweats in Chains of Probability;
But he's a Wretch of very small Discerning,
Fond of good Sense, and antiquated Learning:
For which he's damn'd by all the Brethren round
Who've brought the Art of Phœbus, to meer Sound.
With son'rous Words they arm the Tragick Whiners,
But leave the Burthen of the Plot to Joyners.
Perhaps they'll say Expence of Thought is waste,
Yours is the Blaim; your vitiated Taste,
With Buffoonry is pleas'd, with gaudy Scenes,
With Flambeaux, Crackers, Giants and Machines:

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That while old Plays which quite are Thread-bare worn,
Or Conjureing Harlequins, will serve your Turn;
While Managers can absolutely Rule,
The Chance stands equal with the Wit and Fool:
For while the Masters reign with Pow'r despotick,
While Rules of Art, to them, are Plants exotick,
While those, who scarce can read do Judges sit
Of what is Humour, Elegance, or Wit,
No Wonder if Bombast, and son'rous Rhime,
Usurp the Stage; or that the true Sublime,
Rejected, mold'ring in a Coffer lies,
Or sold to Pastry-Cooks, it bottoms Pies:
No wonder Wit gives place to Ribaldry,
And Humour yields to Love in Hollow Tree.