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EPILOGUE
VVHen Wit, and Native Beauty found Success,
Without a daz'ling Scene, or gaudy Dress,
Then Playes were good, and wholesom your Amour;
But when these downright Blessings pleas'd no more,
Poets, from France, fetch'd new Intrigue, and Plot,
Kind Women, new French Words, and Fashions got:
And finding all French Tricks so much did please,
'T oblige ye more, They got — ev'n their Disease.
That too did take — and as much Honour gets
As breaking Windows, or not paying Debts.
O 'tis so gente! So modish! and so fine!
To shrug and cry, Faith Jack! I drink no Wine:
For I've a swinging Clap this very time —
Poets saw this, and brought their Stages Crimes,
Chang'd Comedy to Farce, and Sense to Rimes.
That took your very Souls —
But now, you are so strangely hum'rous grown,
That even these, your dear Regalio's will not down:
The newest Miss, with all her little Arts,
Sometimes can't soften your obdurate hearts:
At other times, you are so far from Pride,
A swarthy Gipsie would be deify'd.
Then, to your Friends, you tell such horrid Lyes,
You had a Pers'n of Honour in disguise!
Dam'ee the pretty'st Creature! O such Eyes —
No Play without a new Machine will do,
Shortly, Your Miss must act with Engine to:
For brisk, and pretty, you will cry at last,
Can she Curvet? and is she Thorough-pac't?
Y'have Fiddle, and Motion now, and all That —
'Zbud! I wonder what a Devil you'd be at.
If you persist in these lewd damning wayes,
You'll have no more new Misses; nor new Playes.
Per T. D.