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EPILOGUE.
OƲR Author thinks Himself Arraign'd to Day,
You are his Jury, and his Crime the Play.
Me He retains a Counsel in his Case,
What Fee He gave me I leave You to guess.
I come to plead before you vent your Spight,
And by your Verdict Fine Him the Third Night.
First then as Criminals are wont, He chuses
Out of his Jury such, and such refuses.
The Critick He excepts, nor is it fit,
One should be thought for t'other's Faults, a Wit.
Those Ladies next, that shrow'd in Masks their Graces,
And dare shew any thing, except their Faces.
This Plot He to their Judgments won't Submit,
For They're contriving how Their own may hit,
The Singe han't half so many as the Pit.
And least their Favours should at last intrap him,
He'd rather have the Vizzards Hiss, than Clap Him.
For want of Mercy Wits are banish'd hence,
And most of Those who Write, for want of Sense.
To close the Rear, He challenges by Crowds
Brush'd Beavers, Nat'ral Bobs, and Velvet Hoods,
And all behind the Scenes, and all above the Clouds.
To the Few left He lays This Maxim down,
That each should make the Poet's Case his own.
Whoe're Themselves of Ruine are afraid,
All Those should Him their Fellow-suff'rer Aid:
Souldiers Disbanded should their Pity shew,
And India-Merchants, either Old or New.