The Princess of Cleve, as it was acted at the Queens Theatre in Dorset-Garden / by Nath. Lee ...

THE EPILOGUE.

WHat is this Wit which Cowley cou'd not name? The rare Inducement to a perfect Fame, The Art of Nature curious in a Frame. Is it a Whig, a Trimmer, or a Tory, Or an Old Fop forgotten in the Story? 'Tis Honour veil'd in Honesty's Disguise, Or Cesar like a Fencer in a Prize; 'Tis Pindar's Ramble, Nature in Misrule, A Politician acted by a Fool. 'Tis all Variety that Arts can give, The Danaid's filling of a Leakey Sieve: The Valleys Sweets, and the distilling Spring, The brimming Bacchus that the Muses bring, To drink the Health of England's Glorious King. A Statesman thoughtful for a Clown revil'd, A Pestle and a Mortar for a Child. 'Tis a true Principle, but hardly shown, An Artificial Sigh, a Virgins Groan, When the first night her Lover layes her on. 'Tis like a Lass that Gads to gather May, 'Tis like the Comedy you have to day, A Bulling Gallant in a wanton Play.

FINIS.