University of Virginia Library

EPILOGUE.

Time was when Poets rul'd without disputes,
Turn'd Men to Gods, transform'd their Gods to Brutes.
Our Poets change the Scene, with mighty odds
Make Men the Brutes, make nothing of their Gods.
'Tis strange to see by what surprizing skill,
Things are transforme'd by Brothers of the Quill.
No more than this—high—Presto—pass,
Great Jupiter's a Bull—Great Beaux's an Ass.
Whene'er they please to give their thoughts a loose,
Jove's made a Swan, your Alderman's a Goose.
Things of most differing forms too we may find,
By spells of Poetry in one combin'd.
The blustering Face, which Red-Coats bear about,
Is the false Flag which Cowards still hang out,
And that shall huff, and rant, swear loud and ban,
Hector his God, and yet be kickt by Man.
They make the Villain look precise and grave,
And the poor harmless Cit, a thriving Knave.
Strange contradictions! reconcil'd we see,
They sometimes make even Man and Wife agree.
Poets of Old chang'd Io to a Cow,
But what strange Monsters Women are made now?
Females with us, without the Poet's fraud,
Change often to the worst of Beasts, a Bawd.
There are but two things from all change secure,
Nought can transform a Poet or a Whore.
Others for being chang'd, their Stars may blame,
Their punishment is this—still they're the same,
Like paint on Glass that's valu'd at such cost;
Poets ne're fade, altho the Art be lost.