True wit has seen its best days long ago;
  It ne’er look’d up, since we were dipp’d in show: 
  When sense in doggerel rhymes and clouds was lost,
  And dulness flourish’d at the actors’ cost. 
  Nor stopp’d it here; when tragedy was done,
  Satire and humour the same fate have run,
  And comedy is sunk to trick and pun. 
  Now our machining lumber will not sell,
  And you no longer care for heaven or hell;
  What stuff can please you next, the Lord can tell. 10
  Let them, who the rebellion first began
  To wit restore the monarch, if they can;
  Our author dares not be the first bold man. 
  He, like the prudent citizen, takes care
  To keep for better marts his staple ware;
  His toys are good enough for Sturbridge fair. 
  Tricks were the fashion; if it now be spent,
  ’Tis time enough at Easter to invent;
  No man will make up a new suit for Lent. 
  If now and then he takes a small pretence, 20
  To forage for a little wit and sense,
  Pray pardon him, he meant you no offence. 
  Next summer, Nostradamus tells, they say,
  That all the critics shall be shipp’d away,
  And not enow be left to damn a play. 
  To every sail beside, good heaven, be kind: 
  But drive away that swarm with such a wind,
  That not one locust may be left behind!

* * * * *

XXI.

EPILOGUE TO “MITHRIDATES, KING OF PONTUS;”

BY NATHAN LEE, 1678.

  You’ve seen a pair of faithful lovers die: 
  And much you care; for most of you will cry,
  ’Twas a just judgment on their constancy. 
  For, heaven be thank’d, we live in such an age,
  When no man dies for love, but on the stage: 
  And even those martyrs are but rare in plays;
  A cursed sign how much true faith decays. 
  Love is no more a violent desire;
  ’Tis a mere metaphor, a painted fire. 
  In all our sex, the name examined well, 10
  Tis pride to gain, and vanity to tell. 
  In woman, ’tis of subtle interest made: 
  Curse on the punk that made it first a trade! 
  She first did wit’s prerogative remove,
  And made a fool presume to prate of love. 
  Let honour and preferment go for gold;
  But glorious beauty is not to be sold: 
  Or, if it be, ’tis at a rate so high,
  That nothing but adoring it should buy. 
  Yet the rich cullies may their boasting spare; 20
  They purchase but sophisticated ware. 
  ’Tis prodigality that buys deceit,
  Where both the giver and the taker cheat. 
  Men but refine on the old half-crown way;
  And women fight, like Swissers, for their pay.

* * * * *

XXII.