Epilogue

To be spoken by Elaria.

With our old Plays, as with dull Wife it fares,

To whom you have been marry'd tedious Years.

You cry—She's wondrous good, it is confessed, 

But still 'tis Chapon Boüillé at the best; 

That constant Dish can never make a Feast: 

Yet the pall'd Pleasure you must still pursue,

You give so small Incouragement for new;

And who would drudge for such a wretched Age,

Who want the Bravery to support one Stage?

The wiser Wits have now new Measures set,

And taken up new Trades that they may hate.

No more your nice fantastick Pleasures serve,

Your Pimps you pay, but let your Poets starve,

They long in vain for better Usage hop'd,

Till quite undone and tir'd, they dropt and dropt;

Not one is left will write for thin third Day,

Like desperate Pickeroons, no Prize no Pay;

And when they have done their best, the Recompence

Is, Damn the Sot, his Play wants common Sense,

Ill-natured Wits, who can so ill requite

The drudging Slaves, who for your Pleasure write.

Look back on flourishing Rome, ye proud Ingrates,

And see how she her thriving Poets treats:

Wisely she priz'd 'em at the noblest Rate, 

As necessary Ministers of State, 

And Contributions rais'd to make 'em great. 

They from the publick Bank she did maintain,

And freed from want, they only writ for Fame;

And were as useful in a City held,

As formidable Armies in the Field.

They but a Conquest over Men pursued,

While these by gentle force the Soul subdu'd.

Not Rome in all her happiest Pomp cou'd show 

A greater Caesar than we boast of now; 

Augustus reigns, but Poets still are low. 

May Caesar live, and while his mighty Hand

Is scattering Plenty over all the Land;

With God-like Bounty recompensing all,

Some fruitful drops may on the Muses fall;

Since honest Pens do his just cause afford

Equal Advantage with the useful Sword.