Epilogue

This goodly Fabrick to a gazing Tarr, Seems Fore and Aft, a Three Deckt-man os War. Abaft, the Hold's the Pit, from thence look up, Aloft! that Swabber's Nest, that's the Main-Top. Side-boxes mann'd with Beau, and modish Rake, Are like the Fore-castle, and Quarter-Deck. Those dark disguised, advent'rous, black-nos'd few, May pass for Gunners, or a Fire-ship's Crew. Some come like Privateers a Prize to seize, And catch the French within the Narrow Seas. The Orange-Ladies, Virgins of Renown, Are Powder-Monkies running up and down. We've here our Calms, our Storms, and prosp'rous Gales, And shift our Scenes as Seamen shift their Sails. The Ship's well mann'd, and not ill Woman'd neither, So Ballast'd and Stow'd, my Lads, she'll bear the Weather. But greater Dangers ventring Players alarm, This Night's Engagement's worse than any Storm. The Poet's Captain, but half dead with fright, She leaves her Officers to maintain the Fight; Yon'd middle Teer with Eighteen Pounders mauls us, That Upper-Deck with Great and Small-Shot gauls us. But from this Lower-Teer most Harm befals, There's no opposing their prevailing Balls. As either Foe or Friend their Chain-shot flies, We sink or swim, we Conquer, Fall or Rise. To fit and rig our Ships much Pains we take; Grant we may now a Saving-Voyage make. Here we're Embark'd, and as you Smile or Frown, You are our Stars, by You we Live or Drown.