The humorists a comedy ... / written by Tho. Shadwell ...

Epilogue.

THe Mighty Prince of Poets, learned BEN, Who alone div'd into the Minds of Men: Saw all their wandrings, all their follies knew, And all their vain fantastick passions drew. In Images so lively and so true; That there each Humorist himself might view. Yet onely lash'd the Errors of the Times, And ne'r expos'd the Persons, but the Crimes: And never car'd for private frowns, when he Did but chastise publick iniquitie. He fear'd no Pimp, no Pick-pocket, or Drab; He fear'd no Bravo, nor no Ruffian's Stab. 'Twas he alone true Humors understood, And with great Wit and Judgment made them good. A Humor is the Byas of the Mind, By which with violence 'tis one way inclin'd: It makes our Actions lean on one side still, And in all Changes that way bends the will. This— He onely knew and represented right. Thus none but Mighty Johnson e'r could write. Expect not then, since that most flourishing Age, Of BEN. to see true Humor on the Stage.

All that have since been writ, if they be scan'd, Are but faint Copies from that Master's hand. Our Poet now, amongst those petty things, Alas, his too weak trifling humors brings. As much beneath the worst in Johnson's Plays, As his great Merit is above our praise. For could he imitate that great Author right, He would with ease all Poets else out-write. But to out-go all other men, would be O Noble BEN! less than to follow thee. Gallants you see how hard it is to write, Forgive all faults the Poet made to night: Since if he finn'd, ▪twas meant for your delight. Pray let this find— As good success, tho' it be very bad, As any damn'd successful Play e'r had. Yet if you hiss, he knows not where the harm is, He'll not defend his Non-sence Vi & Armis. But this poor Play has been so torn before, That all your Cruelty can't wound it more.

FINIS.