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The Epilogue. Shakespeares GHOST,
Spoken by Mr. Verbruggen,
ENough 'your Cruelty Alive I knew;
And must I Dead be Persecuted too?
Injur'd so much of late upon the Stage,
My Ghost can bear no more; but comes to Rage.
My Plays, by Scriblers, Mangl'd I have seen;
By Lifeless Actors Murder'd on the Scene.
Fat Falstaff here, with Pleasure, I beheld,
Toss off his Bottle, and his Truncheon weild:
Such as I meant him, such the Knight appear'd;
He Bragg'd like Falstaff, and, like Falstaff, fear'd.
But when, on yonder Stage, the Knave was shewn
Ev'n by my Self, the Picture scarce was known.
Themselves, and not the Man I drew, they Play'd;
And Five Dull Sots, of One poor Coxcomb, made.
Hell! that on you such Tricks as these shou'd pass,
Or I be made the Burden of an Ass!
Oh! if Machbeth, or Hamlet ever pleas'd,
Or Desdemona e'r your Passions rais'd;
If Brutus, or the Bleeding Caesar e'r
Inspir'd your Pity, or provok'd your Fear,
Let me no more endure such Mighty VVrongs,
By Scriblers Folly, or by Actors Lungs.
So, late may Betterton for sake the Stage,
And long may Barry Live to Charm the Age.
May a New Otway Rise, and Learn to Move
The Men with Terror, and the Fair with Love!
Again, may Congreve, try the Commic Strain;
And Wycherly Revive his Ancient Vein:
Else may your Pleasure prove your greatest Curse;
And those who now Write dully, still Write worse.