Epilogue

To you, the Tyrant Criticks of the Age, To you, who make such Havock on the Stage; Assault with Fury every coming Scene, Like Hero's arm'd at Ramellis, or Turin. Whilst vanquish'd Wit, shrunk from her Native-Glory, Like the Cow'd Gaul, too weakly stands before Ye. Since then the Poets play this Loosing Game, I, a poor Suppliant in the Muses Name, Beg to avert our trembling Author's Fate; And, like the sad Bavarian Advocate, Resistance Vain, we to your Mercy fly. And court you now to lay your Thunder by. Of Slaughter'd Wits, let the Effusion cease, We, like the Humble Lewis, sue for Peace.