| |
PROLOGUE. FOOLS, 1 which each man meets in his Dish each Day, | |
| Are yet the great Regalio’s of a Play; | |
| In which to Poets you but just appear, | |
| To prize that highest which cost them so dear: | |
| Fops in the Town more easily will pass; | 5 |
| One story makes a statutable Ass; | |
| But such in Plays must be much thicker sown, | |
| Like yolks of Eggs, a dozen beat to one. | |
| Observing Poets all their walks invade, | |
| As men watch Woodcocks gliding through a Glade: | 10 |
| And when they have enough for Comedy, | |
| They stow their several Bodies in a Pye: | |
| The Poet’s but the Cook to fashion it, | |
| For, Gallants, you yourselves have found the Wit. | |
| To bid you welcome would your bounty wrong; | 15 |
| None welcome those who bring their Chear along. | |
| |
EPILOGUE As country Vicars, when the Sermon’s done, | |
| Run hudling 2 to the Benediction; | |
| Well knowing, though the better sort may stay, | |
| The Vulgar Rout will run unblesst away: | 20 |
| So we, when once our Play is done, make haste | |
| With a short Epilogue to close your taste. | |
| In thus withdrawing, we seem mannerly; | |
| But, when the Curtain’s down we peep and see | |
| A Jury of the Wits, who still stay late, | 25 |
| And in their Club decree the poor Plays fate; | |
| Their Verdict back is to the Boxes brought, | |
| Thence all the Town pronounces it their thought. | |
| Thus, Gallants, we like Lilly can foresee; | |
| But if you ask us what our doom will be, | 30 |
| We by to morrow will our Fortune cast, | |
| As he tells all things when the Year is past. | |
