Epilogue

In me you see one Busie-Body more; Tho' you may have enough of one before. With Epilogues, the Busie-Body's Way, We strive to help, but sometimes mar a Play. At this mad Sessions, half condemn'd e'er try'd, Some, in three Days, have been turn'd off, and dy'd. In spight of Parties, their Attempts are vain, For like false Prophets, they ne'er rise again. Too late, when cast, your Favour one beseeches, And Epilogues prove Execution-Speeches. Yet sure I spy no Busie-Bodies here, And one may pass since they do ev'ry where. Sowr Criticks Time and Breath and Censures waste, And baulk your Pleasures to refine your Taste. One busie Don ill-tim'd high Tenets Preaches, Another yearly shows himself in Speeches. Some snivling Cits would have a Peace for spight, To starve those Warriors who so bravely fight. Still of a Foe upon his Knees afraid, Whose well-bang'd Troops want Money, Heart and Bread. Old Beaux, who none, not ev'n themselves can please, Are busie still, for nothing—but to teize The Young; so busie to engage a Heart; The Mischief done, are busy most to part. Ungrateful Wretches, who still cross one's Will, When they more kindly might be busie still! One to a Husband, who ne'er dreamt of Horns, Shows how dear Spouse with Friend his Brows adorns. Th' Officious Tell-tale Fool (he shou'd repent it) Parts three kind Souls that liv'd at Peace contented. Some with Law-Quirks set Houses by the Ears. With Physick one what he would heal impairs. Like that dark mob'd up Fry, that neighb'ring Curse, Who to remove Love's Pains bestow a worse. Since then this medling Tribe infest the Age, Bear one awhile expos'd upon the Stage. Let none but Busie-Bodies vent their Spight, And with good Humour Pleasure crown the Night.