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Show EPILOGUE, By the Honourable John Stafford, Efq; "V7 0 U faw our Wife was Chafte, yet throughly try'd, 1 And, without Doubt, fare hugely edify'd ; For, like our Hero, whom we Jhew'd to Day, You think no Woman true, but in a Flay ; Love once did make a pretty kind of Show, Efteem and Kindnefs in one Breaft wou'd grow, •Bar 'twas Heav'n knows how many Years ago, Now feme fmall Chatt, and Guinea Expectation, Gets all the pretty Creatures in the Nation: In Comedy your little Selves you meet, 'Tis C o vent-Garden drawn in Bridges-ftreet, Smile on our Author then, if he has fhown A jolly Nut-brown Baftard of your own. Ah ! happy you, with Eafe and with Delight, Who aft thofe Follies, Poets toil to write I ' The fweating Mufe does almoft leave the Chafe, She puffs, and hardly keeps your Protean Vices pace* finch you but in one Vice, away you fly Th feme new Frisk of Contrariety. Ton rowl like Stow Balls, gathering as you run, And get feven Dev'ls, when difpop/s'd of one. Tour Venus once was a Platonique Jgueen, Nothing of Love befide the Face was feen \ But every Inch of Her )ou now ITncafe, And clap a Vizard Mafque upon the Face. For Sins like thefe, the zealous of the Land, With little Hair, and little or no Bar.d, Declare how circulating Peftilences Watch every twenty Tears, to fnap Offences. Saturn, even now, takes DoBoral Degrees, He'll do your Work this Summer, without Fees. Let all the Boxes, Phoebus, find thy Grace, And, ah, preferve thy Eighteen-penny Place ! But fir the Pit-confounders, let *em go, And find as little Mercy as they ftjow : The AcJors thus, and thus thy Poets pray ; For every Critick fav'd, thou damn'ft a Play. Sir jfkt%m I^ove: OR, T HE RAMBLING LADY. C O M E D Y. As it was A&ed at the THEATRE ROYAL, By their MAJESTIES SERVANTS* In the Y E A R 1691. Artis fever A ft auis amat efefius, Uentemque magnis applicau • det primos verftbus annos, Mmiumaue bibat fdici peclore fvntem. Petro. Arb. Satyr, pag. ^ Printed in the Y E A R i7um |
