 | The Rival Sisters : Or, The Violence of Love |  |
EPILOGUE, Written by Mr. D'Urfey, and Spoke by Mr. Verbruggen, who enters Laughing.
Ha ! ha! ha!—The Jest is worth being known,Our Country Poet's just come Post to Town,
To see the growth of his first darling Fruits,
Stands peeping yonder in his dirty Boots.
He beg'd me humbly to implore for Grace;
But I, resolv'd t'augment his frightful case,
Told him, I saw damn'd fortune in his Face,
And that to save him now all hope was gone,
Unless he pray'd himself—I'll fetch him on.
[Goes out and immediately re-enters.
'Sdeath! wou'd you think it? Fear o'th'damning Pit
Has thrown the fearful Fool into a Fit!
You see, Gallants, how dreadfully you fright,
What dire Campaigns they hazard that dare Write,
Not Men at Sea, when Mountain Waves swell high,
Not guilty Thieves, pursu'd by Hue and Cry,
Not wounded Soldiers, doubting of their Cure,
Nay, not the French, at Storming of Namure,
Fear'd half so much th'approaching stroke of Death,
As a new Scribler your Bombarding Breath.
I fear it will prove fatal to the Stage:
For now of Wit and Gold w'ave such strange store,
That the excess of it does make us Poor:
Ev'n in the midst of Plenty we shall fall.
Criticks and Clippers have undone us all.
In former Times, when we were at no Charge,
When Wit was narrow, and Half-Crown was large,
When Cit in Cloak came pleas'd to see our Whims,
And brought Queen Bess's Shillings broad as his Hat brims;
Then was a glorious thriving Time for Players;
When the dull Crowd, unskill'd in these Affairs,
To day wou'd laugh with us, to morrow with the Bears:
Careless which Pastime did most Witty prove,
Or who pleas'd best, Tom Poet, or Tom Dove.
But now, ev'n from the Court to the Black Guard,
Thro' all degrees of Men starts up a Bard,
The Beau, the Cit, the Lawyer—and the Lord.
Above twice fifty Plays each Year are made,
And of twice fifty Plays scarce five are Play'd.
Strange Paradox! No Age did e'er let loose
So many Wits, or so much Gold produce,
Yet we want both for necessary use.
However, we are bound to wait your Will;
And tho' you come prepar'd to use us ill,
Change but your Money, and y'are welcome still,
| The Rival Sisters : Or, The Violence of Love | |