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EPILOGUE
SPOKEN BY MRS. BRACEGIRDLE
THE tragedy thus done, I am, you know,
No more a princess, but in statu quo:
And now as unconcerned this mourning wear,
As if indeed a widow or an heir.
I've leisure now to mark your several faces,
And know each critic by his sour grimaces.
To poison plays, I see some where they sit,
Scattered, like ratsbane, up and down the pit;
While others watch like parish-searchers, hired
To tell of what disease the play expired.
Oh with what joy they run to spread the news
Of a damned poet, and departed muse!
But if he 'scape, with what regret they're seized!
And how they're disappointed when they're pleased I
Critics to plays for the same end resort,
That surgeons wait on trials in a court;
For innocence condemned they've no respect,
Provided they've a body to dissect.
As Sussex-men that dwell upon the shore,
Look out when storms arise, and billows roar
Devoutly praying, with uplifted hands,
That some well-laden ship may strike the sands;
To whose rich cargo they may make pretence,
And fatten on the spoils of Providence:
So critics throng to see a new play split,
And thrive and prosper on the wrecks of wit.
Small hope our poet from these prospects draws;
And therefore to the fair commends his cause.
Your tender hearts to mercy are inclined,
With whom, he hopes, this play will favour find,
Which was an offering to the sex designed.
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