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The Young King : or, the Mistake

As 'tis acted at his Royal Highness the Dukes Theatre
  
  
  
  

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EPILOGUE.

64

EPILOGUE.

After our showing Play of mighty Pains,
We here present you humble Nymphs and Swains.
Our Rustick Sports sometimes may Princes please;
And Courts do oft divert in Cottages,
And prize the Joys with some young Rural Maid,
On Beds of Grass, beneath a lovely Shade,
'Bove all the Pride of City-Jilts, whose Arts
Are more to gain your Purses than your Hearts:
Whose chiefest Beauty lies in being fine;
And Coyness is not Virtue, but Designe.
We use no colours to adorn the Face,
No artful Looks, nor no affected Grace.
The neighbouring Stream serves for a Looking-glass.
Ambition is not known within our Groves;
Here's no disputes for Empire, but for Loves:
The humble Swain his Birthright here enjoys,
And fears no danger from the publick Voyce.
No wrong nor insolence from busie Powers:
No Rivals here for Crowns, but those of Flowers:
His Country and his Flocks enjoys with ease,
Ranges his native Fields and Groves in peace:
Not forc'd by Arbitrary Votes to fly
To forein Shores for his security.
Our humble Tributes uncompell'd we pay,
And cheerful homage to the Lord of May:
No emulation breaks his soft repose;
Nor do his Wreaths or Virtues gain him Foes:
No politick mischiefs can disturb his Reign,
And malice wou'd be busie here in vain.
Fathers and Sons just Love and Duty pay;
This knows to be indulgent, that t' obey.
Here's no sedition hatcht, no other Plots,
But to intrap the Wolf that steals our Flocks.
Who then wou'd be a King, gay Crowns to wear,
Restless his nights, thoughtful his days with care;
Whose greatness, nor whose goodness can secure
From outrages which Knaves and Fools procure?
Greatness, be gone, we banish you from hence,
The noblest state is lowly Innocence.
Here honest Wit and Mirth in triumph reigns,
Musick and Love shall ever bless our Swains,
And keep the Golden Age within our Woods and Plains.
FINIS.