The massacre of Paris a tragedy : as it is acted at the Theatre Royal by their majesties servants / written by Nat. Lee ...

EPILOGUE.

By Mr. Powell.

HOW Wise are they, that can with patienc ebear, And just Reflections moderately hear, Vnmov'd by Passion, as unsway'd by Fear. To them we Dedicate this Play to night, That having long been Banish'd from the Light, Hush'd and Imprison'd close, as in the Tow'r, Half prest to Death by a Dispensing Pow'r; To take a lawful Tryal for each Fact, Is just come out by th' Habeas Corpus Act. Rome's Friends, no doubt, suppos'd there might be shown Iust such an Entertainment of their own, The Plot, the Protestants, the Stage, the Town. But no such fear our Hugonots allarm'd, True English Hearts are always better arm'd. For if the Valliant in a little Town, Batter'd and Starving, their brave Cause durst own; If Peasants scorning Death, can Guard our Walls, And the mild Priesthood turn to Generals, Britains stand firm, and in short time you'l see, Your own, and Neighbouring Realms serene and free, Clear'd from the choaking Fogs of Popery. No Massacres, nor Revolutions fear, Affairs are strangely alter'd since last year,

Infallibility himself does run, The Garden's weeded, and the Moles are gone. Not Gold to Lawyers, to th' Ambitious Power, Not lusty Switzer to a lustful Whore, To Gamesters luck, to Beauty length of days, Nor to a wrinkled wither'd Widdow praise, Can give such Ioy, as to behold once more, An English Army on the Gallick Shore. That this will be, the Poets Prophesie, The Poets all were Prophets formerly, T'inspire 'em then, give ours, to night his due, His Tale is somewhat bloody, but 'tis true. A Tragick Truth shown to an Honest end, And can the Good or Wise of neither Sect offend. Fancy and Stile, far as the rest excel, In our Deliv'rance-Year, let no Tongue tell, Poets the only curst on whom no Manna fell. Plead that they may be Caesar's Influence breathe, And mix a Lawrel with his Oaken Wreath. Then shall his Glory Flourish to the height, Then every Pen shall Panegyrick write. This, this was He, who blest by Sacred Pow'r, To England its Religion did restore, So firm, that Rome cou'd never hurt it more.

FINIS.