 | Henry the Second |  |
78
EPILOGUE.
If from our Play returning to your homes,Ye chance to read this story as 'tis writ;
And find our Harry cross the seas for France,
Our Becket unto Rome for succour fly,
Thence unto Louis' court to meet his king;
Where friends ye find, this haughty priest once more
Invited home unto his dignities.
When this ye read, do not your author blame;
He cou'd not bear ye on swift lightning's wing,
O'er billowing seas, deserts and gay towns;
Or shew within the compass of one hour,
The business of a twenty summer's course;
Yet shou'd ye frown, look back upon his Play,
And let our Harry's courage and sweet love,
Forgiveness beg for his o'erleaping time.
Our haughty and ambitious Becket too,
Shall plead the lack of place: Yet after all,
Shou'd any present still remain unkind,
And carry with him to his nightly couch,
The frown of discontent; O, shou'd this be;
Then think how much the writer here hath toil'd
To please, and shew in this our Harry's reign,
The pride and glory of our English land,
The unstain'd thunder of our regal lion;
No brow so rough, but sure will smooth at this,
No frown so black, but will to sweetness turn,
And bright as sun when bursting from the East,
Drive night away—Yet why intreat ye thus?
No more! no more! ye smile and look so sweet,
I'll to our young and trembling author say,
Ye heard, ye smil'd, and did applaud his Play.
| Henry the Second | |