Epilogue

These Poets are such Fools!—The Man behind, Who wrote this Play—a simple Soul, I find,— Believes, with all his Heart, there was a Wife, Who needs would die—to save a Husband's Life! He in the printed Chronicles has read it: And true it is—Sir Richard Baker said it.

Why what an Ass these Books do make a Man? Read Nature—then believe it—you who can. Look round this Town—the question is not—whether Spouse dies for Spouse: but who will live together? Of old, they say, a Husband was a Lover: But, thank our Stars! these foolish Days are over: To such substantial Prudence are we come, We wed not Heart to Heart—but Plumb to Plumb. What Sense? what Beauty? are not now the Things: But can he settle—up to what she brings?

Yet in this easy, all-forgiving Age, Bear with such moral Fooleries—on the Stage. Perhaps too, there may be some gentle Soul, Who rather likes to weep—than win a Vole; Who thinks that there are Charms in generous Love, And would to Edward Eleonora prove.