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But stay; methinks some vizard mask I see
Cast out her lure from the mid gallery;
About her all the flutt'ring sparks are rang'd,
The noise continues tho' the scene is chang'd:
Now growling, sputt'ring, wawling, such a clutter,
'Tis just like puss defendant in a gutter.

16 Fine love, no doubt! But ere two days are o'er ye, The surgeon will be told a woeful story.

Let Vizard Mask her naked face expose,

On pain of being thought to want a nose.
Then for your lackeys, and your train beside,
By whate'er name or title dignify'd,

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They roar so loud, you'd think behind the stairs
Tom Dove, and all the brotherhood of Bears.
They're grown a nuisance, beyond all disasters; 25
We've none so great but their unpaying masters.
We beg you, Sirs, to beg your men, that they,
Would please to give you leave to hear the play.
Next in the playhouse'spare your precious lives;
Think, like good Christians, on your bairns and wives;
Think on your souls; but by your lugging forth, 31
It seems you know how little they are worth.
If none of these will move the warlike mind,
Think on the helpless whore you leave behind.
We beg you, last, our scene-room to forbear,
And leave our goods and chattels to our care.
Alas! our women are but washy toys,
And wholly taken up in stage employs:

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Poor willing tits they are; but yet, I`doubt,
This double duty soon will wear them out.

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Then you are watch'd besides with jealous care;
What if my lady's page should find you there?
My Lady knows t'a tittle what there's in ye;
No passing your gilt shilling for a guinea.
Thus, Gentlemen, we have summ'd up, in short, 45
Our grievances from country, town, and court,
Which humbly we submit to your good pleasure ;
But first vote money, then redress at leisure.

XII.

48

EPILOGUE to THE PRINCESS OF CLEVES, 1689.

A QUALM of conscience brings me back again,
To make amends to you bespatter'd men.
We women love, like cats that hide their joys,
By growling, squalling, and a hideous noise.

I rail'd at wild young sparks; but, without lying, 5
Never was man worse thought on for high-flying.
The prodigal of love gives each her part,

And squandring shows, at least a noble part,
I've heard of men who, in some lewd lampoon,
Have hir'd a friend to make their valour known. Io

That accusation straight this question brings,
What is the man that does such naughty things?
The spaniel lover, like a sneaking fop,

Lies at our feet; he's scarce worth taking up.

What might ensue 'tis hard for me to tell,
But I was drench'd to-day for loving well,.

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And fear the poison that would make me swell.

XIV.

AN EPILOGUE.

You saw our wife was chaste, yet throughly try'd,

And, without doubt, y' are hugely edify'd;
For like our hero whom we shew'd to-day,
You think no woman true but in a play.
Love once did make a pretty kind of show;
Esteem and kindness in one breast would grow;
But 'twas Heav'n knows how many years ago.
Now some small chat, and guinea expectation,
Gets all the pretty creatures in the nation.
In comedy your little selves you meet ;
'Tis Covent-Garden drawn in Bridges-Street.
Smile on our author then, if he has shown
A jolly nut-brown bastard of your own.
Ah! happy you, with ease and with delight,
Who act those follies poets toil to write!

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The sweating Muse does almost leave the chase;

She puffs, and hardly keeps your Protean vices pace. Pinch you but in one vice, away you fly

To some new frisk of contrariety.

You roll like snow-balls, gath'ring as you run, 20 And get sev'n dev'ls when dispossess'd of one.

Your Venus once was a Platonic queen;
Nothing of love beside the face was seen;
But ev'ry inch of her you now uncase,
And clap a vizard-mask upon the face.
For sins like these the zealous of the land,
With little hair, and little or no band,
Declare how circulating pestilences

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Watch, ev'ry twenty years, to snap offences.
Saturn e'en now takes doctoral degrees,

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He'll do your work this summer without fees,
Let all the boxes, Phoebus! find thy grace,
And, ah! preserve the eighteen-penny place!
But for the pit-confounders, let 'em go,
And find as little mercy as they show:

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The actors thus, and thus thy poets pray;
For ev'ry critic sav'd thou damn'st a play.

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XV.

EPILOGUE to THE HUSBAND HIS OWN CUCKOLD.

LIKE some raw sophister that mounts the pulpit,
So trembles a young poet at a full pit,

Unus d to crowds, the parson quakes for fear,
And wonders how the dev'l he durst come there,
Wanting three talents needful for the place,
Some beard, some learning, and some little grace.

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Nor is the puny Poet void of care,

For authors, such as our new authors are,

Have not much learning, nor much wit to spare: And as for grace, to tell the truth, there's scarce one But has as little as the very Parson.

II

Both say they preach and write for your instruction,
But 'tis for a third day, and for induction.
The diff'rence is, that though you like the play,
The Poet's gain is ne'er beyond his day.

But with the Parson 'tis another case;
He without holiness may rise to grace.
The Poet has one disadvantage more,
That if his play be dull he's damn'd all o'er,
Not only a damn'd blockhead, but damn'd poor.
But dulness well becomes the sable garment;
I warrant that ne'er spoil'd a Priest's preferment :
Wit's not his bus'ness, and as wit now goes,
Sirs, 'tis not so much your's as you suppose,
For you like nothing now but nauseous beaus. 25
You laugh not, Gallants! as by proof appears,
At what his Beauship says, but what he wears;
So 'tis your eyes are tickled, not your ears.
The tailor and the furrier find the stuff,
The wit lies in the dress and monstrous muff.
The truth on't is, the payment of the pit
Is like for like, clipt money for clipt wit.
You cannot from our absent author hope
He should equip the stage with such a fop:

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