20

Let him retire, betwixt two Ages cast,
The first of this, and hindmost of the last.
A losing Gamester, let him sneak away;
He bears no ready Money from the Play.
The Fate which governs Poets, thought it fit,
He shou'd not raise his Fortunes by his Wit.
The Clergy thrive, and the litigious Bar;
Dull Heroes fatten with the Spoils of War:
All Southern Vices, Ileav'n be prais'd, are
here;

But Wit's a Luxury you think too dear. 30
When you to cultivate the Plant are loth,
'Tis a shrewd sign 'twas never of your
growth:

And Wit in Northern Climates will not blow, Except, like Orange-trees, 'tis hous'd from Snow.

There needs no care to put a Play-house down,

'Tis the most desart place of all the Town : We and our Neighbours, to speak proudly,

are

Like Monarchs, ruin'd with expensive War; While, like wise English, unconcern'd you sit,

And see us play the Tragedy of Wit.

EPILOGUE.

done,

Though he perhaps has fail'd in ev'ry one : 10 But, after all, a Poet must confess,

is Art's, like Physick, but a happy ghess. Your Pleasure on your Fancy must depend : The Lady's pleas'd, just as she likes her Friend.

No Song! no Dance! no Show! he fears you'l say:

You love all naked Beauties, but a Play. He much mistakes your methods to delight; And, like the French, abhors our Targetfight:

But those damn'd Dogs can never be i' th' right.

True English hate your Monsieur's paltry Arts,

20

For you are all Silk-weavers, in your hearts. Bold Brillons, at a brave Bear-garden Fray, Are rouz'd; and, clatt'ring Sticks, cry, Play, play, play.

Meantime, your filthy Forreigner will stare, And mutter to himself, Ha gens Barbare! And, Gad, 'tis well he mutters; well for him; Our Butchers else would tear him limb from limb.

'Tis true, the time may come, your Sons may be

30

A pretty task! and so I told the Fool,
Who needs would undertake to please by
Rule:

He thought that, if his Characters were good, The Scenes entire, and freed from noise and bloud;

The Action great, yet circumscrib'd by Time, The Words not forc'd, but sliding into Rhime,

The Passions rais'd and calm'd by just Degrees,

As Tides are swell'd, and then retire to Seas;

Ilis Sword-knot this, his Crevat this design'd; And this the yard long Snake he twirls behind.

From one the sacred Perriwig he gain'd, Which Wind ne'er blew, nor touch of Hat prophan'd.

Another's diving Bow he did adore,
Which with a shog casts all the hair before,

30

Till he with full Decorum brings it back,
And rises with a Water Spaniel shake.
As for his Songs (the Ladies dear Delight)
Those sure he took from most of you who
Write.

Yet every man is safe from what he fear'd;

For no one fool is hunted from the herd.

bore;

Not blast the Blossom, but expect the Fruit. The Sex that best does pleasure understand Will alwayes chuse to err on t'other hand. They check not him that's aukard in delight,

But clap the young Rogues Cheek, and set him right.

Thus heartn'd well, and flesh't upon his Prey, The youth may prove a man another day. 10 Your Ben and Fletcher, in their first young flight,

Did no Volpone, no Arbaces write;

But hopp'd about, and short Excursions made

From Bough to Bough, as if they were afraid,

And each were guilty of some Slighted Maid.)

The Prince of Tyre was elder than the

Moore.

'Tis miracle to see a first good Play ; All Hawthorns do not bloom on Christmasday.

20

A slender Poet must have time to grow,
And spread and burnish as his Brothers do.
Who still looks lean, sure with some pox is
curst,

But no Man can be Falstaff-fat at first,
Then damn not, but indulge his stew'd
Essays,

Encourage him, and bloat him up with Praise,

That he may get more bulk before he dies, He's not yet fed enough for Sacrifice. Perhaps, if now your Grace you will not grudge,

He may grow up to write, and you to judge.