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EPILOGUE.

T

HE Tragedy thus done, I am, you know,
No more a Princes, but in ftatu quo:
And now as unconcerned this mourning awear,
As if indeed a day, or an heir,

I've leifure, noto mark your fevral faces,
And know each tie by his four grimaces.
To poiffure them where they fit,
Scatt d, like re bant, up and down the pit ;
bile others watch like pare fearchers, hir'd
To tell of what disease the play expir'd.
O with what joy they run, to spread the news
Of a damn'd poet, and departed mufe!

But if he 'fcape, with what regret they're feiz'd!
And how they're difappointed, roben they're pleas'd!
Critics to plays for the fame end refort,
That furgeons wait on tryals in a court ;
For innocence condemn'd they've no respect,
Provided they've a body to diffect.

As Suffex-men, that dwell upon the fboar,
Look out when forms arife, and billows roar,
Devoutly praying, with uplifted hands,
That fome well-laden ship may strike the fands;
To whofe rich cargo they may make pretence,
And fatten on the spoils of providence:
So critics throng to fee a new play split,
And thrive and profper on the wrecks of wit.
Small hope our poet from thefe profpects draws;
And therefore to the fair commends his caufe.
Your tender hearts to mercy are inclin'd,
With whom, he hopes, this play will favour find,
Which was an off'ring to the fex defign'd.

FINI S.

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2084

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