THE EPILOGUE. Written by AARON HILL Esq Spoke by Mrs. SEYMOUR

You've seen the Play:—and I'll unfold the Poet, To whom,—(stray'd Sheep, of a Pure Flock!) we owe it. He's a Chance-Blessing—somewhat strangely flung us! Dropt—from the Clouds of Innocence,—among us! Slipt, thro' the Kirk's loose Pale, We gave him Quarter— Poor Soul!—He' had like to've been the Muse's Martyr. When Stage-Plays!—and Abominations!—took him, Grace, and the Shepherds of the Saints forsook him. 'Twas given, thenceforth, to Satan's Power, to win him: —The Root of the Sound Matter—was not in him! Yet, tho' rebuk'd, full sore,—he's no huge Sinner: You'll scarce see One of his pure Brethren—thinner. Most sanctify'd of Face! Troth—I'm afraid, If his Looks lie not—the poor Man's a Maid!

The Bard, not carnal-minded,—say the Curious, How come th' unfleshly Folks, to be so furious? Judge you the Quarrel, right.—we'll, briefly, show it.— —Good plays give good Instruction—said the Poet. Vanity! cry'd the Brethren.—Gross Defilement! And, so, the War broke out, past Reconcilement.

Young Bays, provok'd, here, drew his wrathful Pen— Shine forth, said he, my Muse, on those dark Men; And prove, by Dint of fair Example, whether Much Goodness is not learnt, by coming hither?

But, what He teaches, be to Him alone,— I'll teach a Secret Lesson, of my own. —Say they, of Plays,—that Men learn Nothing by 'em? I stand—the Stage's Champion—and defye 'em. Who, that has seen, to Night, how I, a Wife, Gave Counsel, fit to've sav'd my Spouse's Life, Learns not this Moral, past all Contradiction, That Disobedient Husbands—meet Affliction? That He's most happy, who, his Fetters eases, And lots his wiser Wife—do—what she pleases?

This, for our Sexe's Fame, his Play produccs— You see—all Doctrines have their hidden Uses. To This—if the bluff Brethren preach Resistance, Let 'em, if they love Safety, keep their Distance. For, should we catch 'em, in our wrong'd Dominion, Stiff as they are, we'll make 'em change Opinion.