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Pompey

A Tragoedy
  
  
  
  

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EPILOGUE. Written by Sir Edward Deering, Baronet.

62

EPILOGUE. Written by Sir Edward Deering, Baronet.

Pleas'd or displeas'd, censure as you think fit,
The Action, Plot, the Language of the Wit:
But we're secure, no Bolder thought can tax
These scenes of Blemish to the blushing Sex.
Nor Envy with her hundred Eyes espy
One line severest Virtue need to fly:
As Chast the words as harmless is the sence,
As the first smiles of Infant Innocence.
Yet at your Feet, Cæsar's Content to bow,
And Pompey, never truly Great till now:
Who does your Praise and kinder Votes prefer
Before th'applause of his own Theatre:
Where fifty Thousand Romans daily blest
The Gods and him, for all that they possest.
The sad Cornelia sayes, your gentler breath
Will force a smile, ev'n after Pompey's Death.
She thought all Passions bury'd in his Urne,
But flattering hopes and trembling fears return:
Undone in Egypt, Thessaly and Rome,
She yet in Ireland hopes a milder Doom:
Nor from Iberian Shoars, or Lybian Sands
Expect relief, but only from your hands.
Ev'n Cleopatra, not content to have
The universe, and Cæsar too her Slave:
Forbears her Throne, till you her right allow;
'Tis less t'have rul'd the World, then pleased you.
FINIS.