Epilogue

What mighty pains our Scribling Sot has shown, To Ridicule our Sex, and Praise his own. As if we Women muster'd all our Charms, To tempt an odious Fellow to our Arms. One Lady proves so fond, or rather mad, She'd fain confess a Child she never had. Alas! how many Nymphs about this Town, Have pretty Moppits, that they dare not own? Then a West-country Dam'sel trots to Town, And talks of Paint, False-hair, and Rumpt-up-Gown, Things which to Men shou'd never be reveal'd, But equally with Cuckoldom conceal'd. Yet, tell me, Sirs, don't you as nice appear, With your false Calves, Bardash, and Fav'rites here? Nay, in Side-Boxes too, I've often known, 'Mongst Flaxen-Wiggs, Complexions not their own; Who hiss good Plays, and to Camilla fly, Draw out their Pocket-glasses, Squint, and Cry,

These Eyes are made so killing, &c. Young Templers too, with upstart forward Graces, When Pummis-stone has travell'd o're their Faces, March hither, where Mobb'd Hoods too often ply, And want a Lodging, tho' Six-stories high; Where the fond Youth the modest Dame implores, And at Day-break ejects her out of Doors. Some Cheapside-Bobbs too trudge it to our Play, Faith, Jack, this Hay-Market's a cursed way: What signifie the Quality or Wits, The Money, Daniel, rises from us Cits. Who, like Cock-Sparrows, hop about the Benches, And court, with Six-pences, fat Orange-Wenches. In short, you Men have more Fantastick ways, More Follies, than can e're be stuft in Plays: But since all Satyr's for your Mirth design'd, Excuse the Errors, which to Night you find, And to this Play be Gen'rous, Just, and Kind.