EPILOGUE.
Spoke by Mrs. Bracegirdle.
Too well we saw what must have been our Fate,When Harmony with Beauty joyn'd of late,Threaten'd the Ruin of our sinking State;Till you, from whom our Being we receive,In pity bid your own Creation live.With moving Sounds you kindly drew the Fair,And fixt, once more, that shining Circle here.The Lyre you bring is half Apollo's Praise;Be ours the Task to win and wear his Bayes.Thin Houses were before so frequent to us,We wanted not a Project to undo us.We seldom saw your Honours but by chance,As some Folks meet their Friends of Spain and France.'Twas Verse decay'd, or Politicks improv'd,That had estrang'd you thus from what you lov'd.Time was, when busie Faces were a Jest,When Wit and Pleasure were in most request;When chearful Theaters with Crouds were grac'd;But those good Days of Poetry were past:Now sow'r Reformers in an empty Pit,With Table Books, as at a Lecture, sit,To take Notes, and give Evidence 'gainst Wit.Those who were once our Friends, employ'd elsewhere,Are busie now in setling Peace and War.With careful Brows at Tom's and Will's they meet,And ask, who did Election's lose or get———Our Friend has lost it———Faith, I'm sorry for't,He's a good Man, and ne'er was for the Court:He to no Government will sue for Grace;
