Epilogue

Inconstancy, the reigning Sin o' th' Age, Will scarce endure true Lovers on the Stage; You hardly ev'n in Plays with such dispense, And Poëts kill 'em in their own Defence. Yet One bold Proof I was resolv'd to give, That I cou'd three Hours Constancy Out-live. You fear, perhaps, whilst on the Stage w' are made Such Saints, we shall indeed take up the Trade; Sometimes we Threaten — but our Vertue may For Truth I fear with your Pit-Valour weigh: For (not to flatter either) I much doubt When We are off the Stage, and You are out, We are not quite so Coy, nor You so Stout. We talk of Nunn'ries— but to be sincere Whoever lives to see us Cloyster'd There, May hope to meet our Critiques at Tangier. For shame give over this inglorious Trade Of worrying Poëts, and go maule th' Alcade. Well— since y' are All for blustring in the Pit, This Play's Reviver humbly do's admit Your abs'lute Pow'r to damn his Part of it; But still so many Master-Touches shine Of that vast Hand that first laid this Design, That in great Shakespears Right, He's bold to say If you like nothing you have seen to Day The Play your Judgment damns, not you the Play.