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EPILOGUE.
PLeas'd or displeas'd, censure as you think fit,
The Action, Plot, the language or the wit:
But we're secure, no Bolder thought can tax
These Scenes of Blemish to the blushing Sex.
Nor Envy with her hundred Eyes espie
One line severest Virtue need to flye:
As Chast the words, as harmless is the sence,
As the first smiles of Infant Innocence.
Yet at your Feet, Caesar's Content to bow,
And Pompey, never truly Great till now:
Who does your Praise and kinder Votes prefer
Before th' applause of his own Theatre:
Where fifty Thousand Romans daily blest
The Gods and him, for all that they possest.
The sad Cornelia says, your gentler breath
Will force a smile, ev'n after Pompey's Death.
She thought all Passions bury'd in his Urn,
But flattering hopes and trembling fears return:
Undone in Egypt, Thessaly and Rome,
She yet in Ireland hopes a milder Doom:
Nor from Iberian Shores, or Lybian Sands
Expects relief, but only from your hands.
Ev'n Cleapatra, not content to have
The Universe, and Caesar too her Slave,
Forbears her Throne, till you her right allow;
'Tis less t' have rul'd the World, then pleased you.