A Collection of poems written upon several occasions by several persons with many additions, never before in print.

EPILOGUE

To every Man in his humour.

IN treaty shall not serve nor violence▪ To make me speak in such a Playes defence. A Play where Wit and Humour do agree To break all practis'd Laws of Comedy: The Scene (what more absurd) in England lies, No Gods descend, nor dancing Devils rise; No captive Prince from nameless Country brought No battel, nay, there's not a duel fought.

And something yet more sharply might be said, But I consider the poor Author's dead; Let that be his excuse— Now for our own, VVhy— Faith, in my opinion, we need none. The parts were fitted well; but some will say, Pox on 'em Rogues what made 'em chuse this Play? I do not doubt but you will credit me, It was not choice, but meer necessity; To all our writing friends, in Town, we sent, But not a VVit durst venture out in Lent; Have patience but till Easter-Term, and then You shall have Jigg and Hobby-horse agen. Here's Mr. Matthew, our domestique VVit, Does promise one of the ten Plays h'as writ; But since great bribes weigh nothing with the just Know, we have merits, and in them we trust; VVhen any Fasts, or Holy-days, defer The publick labours of the Theatre,

We ride not forth although the day be fair, On ambling Tit to take the Suburb-air, But with our Authors meet, and spend that time To make up quarrels between sence and rhyme. Wednesdays and Fridays constantly we sate Till after many a long and free debate, For divers weighty reasons 'twas thought fit, Unruly sence shu'd still to rhyme submit. This the most wholesom Law we ever made. So strictly in this Epilogue obey'd, Sure no man here will ever dare to break.

Enter Johnson's Ghost.

Hold, and give way, for I my self will speak, Can you encourage so much insolence, And add new faults still to the great offence Your Ancestors so rashly did commit Against the mighty Powers of Art and Wit?

When they condemn'd those noble works of mine Sejanus, and my best lov'd Cataline: Repent, or on your guilty heads shall fall The curse of many a rhyming Pastoral: The three bold Beauchamps shall revive again, And with the London Prentice conquer Spain All the dull follies of the former age Shall rise and find applause upon this Stage. But if you pay the great arrears of praise, So long since due to my much injur'd Plays, From all past crimes I first will set you free, And then inspire some one to write like me.