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The EPILOGUE.
POets at best but Cooks, Dress out a Feast,
And to his Cost invite each Welcom Guest.
Prologue and Epilogue like Grace to what you Eat,
Serve but to usher in and out the Meat.
What shall we do then, for to feed a Glutton?
We must have something more than Beef and Mutton.
Of late your Stomachs are so squeamish grown,
You are not pleas'd with Dainties of our own.
And 'tis meer folly now to think to win ye
Without Balon or Seignior Clementine.
Thus we (God knows) to furnish out the Treat,
Pay more for Sawces than you do for Meat.
And further then, expects your Indignation,
And dares not think of ought but his Damnation.
He plainly owns that he to gain his Cause,
Wants as well English, as Outlandish Sawce.
Humour, to give an Edge to your Delight:
To smooth your Brows, and whet your Appetite,
Is what he durst not, or he could not write.
Yet pray consider e're you pass his Doom,
Will it look well to Damn you know not whom?
He's Fool enough, yet wants the Poet's Face,
To own his Name, and Print himself an Ass.
You see the Orphan Brat's laid at our Door,
And we in justice must protect the Poor.
We beg you use it not as good Church-warden
Would do a lump of Sin from Covent Garden.
Each Witling may adopt it for his own,
And then with them be sure it will go down.
Nor is it in this Age so strange a Blot,
To Father Children whom you ne're begot.