THE EPILOGUE TO Redowald, a Masque

Shou'd some grave wit our Author's Piece decry, And damn the Plot from meer Acerbity; Let gentle Candour rise and take his Part, And own he's shewn more Genius than Art. To write a Play you'll own is no small Task, Then what must be the Labour of a Masque? Fancy must aid the Bard where Nature fails, And daring Genius muster all her Sails; Our nonag'd Poet unregarding Time, Slipt from his Wing; and, touring forth sublime, Survey'd the Muses with enraptur'd Eyes, Ador'd their Tracks and mounted to the Skies — Shou'd it be said Ambition was the Cause That urg'd him first to write;—or vain Applause; Ere you convict him of a Thirst for Fame, Turn to the Title, and find out his Name.