Literature & Theatre > Prologue to the Squire of Alsatia

               EPILOGUE,
       Spoken by Mrs. Mountfort.

YE mighty ſcowers of theſe narrow Seas,
Who ſuffer not a Bark to ſail in peace,
But with your Tire of Culverins ye roar,
Bring 'em by th' Lee, and Rummidge all their ſtore ;
Our Poet duck'd, and look'd as if half dead,
At every Shot that whiſtled o're his Head.
Frequent Engagements ne're could make him hold,
He fneak'd into a corner of the Hold.
Since he ſubmits, pray eaſe him of his fear,
And with a joynt Applauſe hid him appear,
Good Crkicks don't inſult and domineer.}
He fears not Sparks, who with brisk dreſs and meen,
Come not to hear or ſee, but to be ſeen.
Bach prunes himſelf and with a languiſhing Eye,
Deſigns to kill a Lady, by the by.
Let each fantaſlick ugly Beau and Shape,
Little of Man, . and very much of Ape,
Admire himſelf, and let the Poet ſcape.}
   Ladies, Tour Anger moſl he apprehends,
And is grown paſt the Age of making Friends
Of any of the Sex whom he offends.}
No Princeſs frowns, no Hero rants and whines,
Nor is weak Senſe enbroyder'd with ſtrong lines:
No Battels, Trumpets, Drums,not any dye;
No Mortal Wounds, to pleaſe your Cruelty;
Who like not, any thing but Tragedy.}
With fond, unnatural extravagancies,
Stolen from the ſilly Authors of Romances.
Let ſuch the Chamber-maids diverſion be,
Pray be you reconcil'd to Comedy.
For when we make you merry, you muſl own
Tou are much prettier than when you frown.
With charming ſmiles you vſe to conquer ſtill,
The melancholly look's not apt to kill.
Our Poet begs you who adorn this Sphere,
This Shining Circle, will not be ſevere.
Here no Chit chat, here no Tea Tables are.}
The Cant he hopes will not be long unknown,
'Tis almoſt grown the language of the Town.
For Fops, who feel a wretched want of Wit,
Still ſet up ſomethhtg that may paſs for it.
He begs that you will often grace his Play,
And lets you know Munday's his viſiting day.

LONDON, Printed for James Knapton, at the Queens
         Head in St. Pauls Church-yard. 1688.