 | The Tragedy of Sir Walter Raleigh |  |
EPILOGUE. Spoken by Mrs. BULLOCK.
What
! two new Plays! and those at once appear!
Sure, Authors fancy this a thriving Year!
Yet, to write Plays is easy, faith, enough;
As you have seen by—Cibber—in Tartuffe.
With how much Wit he did your Hearts engage!
He only Stole the Play;—he Writ the Title-Page.
Sure, Authors fancy this a thriving Year!
Yet, to write Plays is easy, faith, enough;
As you have seen by—Cibber—in Tartuffe.
With how much Wit he did your Hearts engage!
He only Stole the Play;—he Writ the Title-Page.
We dare not tread the Path our Rivals do;
We were resolv'd you should have something New.
'Tis double Felony (as I am told)
To pay Bad Money, and That—clip'd and old:
And yet so partial are you in the Case,
We suffer still, but They—have Acts of Grace.
Sure That old Theatre's your Mistress grown,
We are your Wives—You use us like your own.
We were resolv'd you should have something New.
'Tis double Felony (as I am told)
To pay Bad Money, and That—clip'd and old:
And yet so partial are you in the Case,
We suffer still, but They—have Acts of Grace.
Sure That old Theatre's your Mistress grown,
We are your Wives—You use us like your own.
Should Shakespear rise, and see (each murthering Day)
Scenes cut and alter'd, and mis-call'd—his Play;
How would the reverend Bard regret the Shame?
Why thus—“To rob my Urn, then stab my Fame,
“Should be a Sin this learned generous Age
“Ought to revenge upon the Guilty Stage.
“But if, in vain, an honest Cause I plead,
“Thus shall my Wish and Punishment succeed:
“Fleckno, the Sire of Dullness, shall inspire
“His Sons to scribble, without Sense—or Fire.
“Players turn Wits, by Nonsense rise or fall,
“Yet cry out boldly—S'Blood! We'll stand 'em all.
Thus far for Shakespear, and our Common Right:
Now for the Author's Part, and then—Good-night:
For I have a Request, before I go;
Speak plainly; Is our Poet damn'd, or—no?
If he is Dull, the Play, perhaps, may live;
For Wit's a Crime we know You can't forgive.
Wit cannot fall so fast, as Folly rises;
Witness the Masquerade—at double Prizes.
Yet if you are not pleas'd with what We've plaid,
Go see old Shirley drest in Masquerade.
Scenes cut and alter'd, and mis-call'd—his Play;
How would the reverend Bard regret the Shame?
Why thus—“To rob my Urn, then stab my Fame,
“Ought to revenge upon the Guilty Stage.
“But if, in vain, an honest Cause I plead,
“Thus shall my Wish and Punishment succeed:
“Fleckno, the Sire of Dullness, shall inspire
“His Sons to scribble, without Sense—or Fire.
“Players turn Wits, by Nonsense rise or fall,
“Yet cry out boldly—S'Blood! We'll stand 'em all.
Thus far for Shakespear, and our Common Right:
Now for the Author's Part, and then—Good-night:
For I have a Request, before I go;
Speak plainly; Is our Poet damn'd, or—no?
If he is Dull, the Play, perhaps, may live;
For Wit's a Crime we know You can't forgive.
Wit cannot fall so fast, as Folly rises;
Witness the Masquerade—at double Prizes.
Yet if you are not pleas'd with what We've plaid,
Go see old Shirley drest in Masquerade.
| The Tragedy of Sir Walter Raleigh | |