EPILOGUE

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JANE SHORE.

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Defign'd for Mrs. OLDFIELD.

Rodigious this! the Frail one of our Play

From her own fex fhould mercy find to day!

You might have held the pretty head aside,

Peep'd in your fans, been ferious, thus, and cry'd,
The Play may pass---but that strange creature, Shore,
I can't---indeed now---I fo hate a whore---
Just as a blockhead rubs his thoughtless skull,
And thanks his stars he was not born a fool;

So from a fifter finner you fhall hear,

How ftrangely you expose your self, my dear? But let me die, all raillery apart,

Our fex are still forgiving at their heart;

And did not wicked custom fo contrive,
We'd be the best, good-natur'd things alive.

There are, 'tis true, who tell another tale,
That virtuous ladies envy while they rail ;
Such rage without betrays the fire within;
In fome close corner of the foul, they fin:
Still hoarding up, most scandalously nice,
Amidst their virtues, a reserve of vice.
The godly dame who fleshly failings damns,
Scolds with her maid, or with her chaplain crams,
Wou'd you enjoy foft nights and folid dinners?
Faith, gallants, board with faints, and bed with finners.

Well, if our author in the Wife offends,

He has a Husband that will make amends.
He draws him gentle, tender, and forgiving,
And fure fuch kind good creatures may be living.
In days of old they pardon'd breach of vows,
Stern Cato's felf was no relentless spouse:
Plu----Plutarch, what's his name that writes his life?
Tells us, that Cato dearly lov'd his wife:

Yet if a friend a night, or so, should need her,
He'd recommend her, as a special breeder.

To lend a wife, few here would scruple make,
But pray
which of you all would take her back?
Tho' with the Stoick chief our stage may ring,

The Stoick husband was the glorious thing.
The man had courage, was a fage, 'tis true,
And lov'd his country---but what's that to you?
Those strange examples ne'er were made to fit ye,
But the kind cuckold might instruct the City:
There, many an honeft man may copy Cato,
Who ne'er faw naked Sword, or look'd in Plato.
If, after all, you think it a difgrace,

That Edward's Mifs thus perks it in your face,
To fee a piece of failing flesh and blood,
In all the rest so impudently good ;.

Faith, let the modeft matrons of the town,

Come here in crowds, and ftare the ftrumpet down.

Occafion'd

Occafion'd by fome VERSES of his Grace the Duke of BUCKINGHAM.

USE, 'tis enough: at length thy labour ends,

And thoufhalt live; for Buckingham commends.

Let crowds of criticks now my verfe affail,
Let D----s write, and nameless numbers rail:
This more than pays whole years of thankless pain;
Time, health, and fortune, are not loft in vain.
Sheffield approves, confenting Phoebus bends,

And I and Malice from this hour are friends.

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