Shepherd, Is there no way to moderate her anger? Shepherd, Echo, Hang her. Thanks, gentle echo; right thy answers tell, What woman is, and how to guard her well. Echo, Guard her well. EPILOGUE to a PLAY For the benefit of the Weavers in Ireland. WE 1721. HO dares affirm this is no pious age, When actors, who at best are hardly favers, They learnt it not at fermons, or at pray'rs. * Dr. William King, archbishop of Dublin. Under Under the rofe, fince here are none but friends, To own the truth, we have fome private ends: Since waiting-women, like exacting jades, Hold up the prices of their old brocades, We'll drefs in manufactures made at home, Equip our kings and gen'rals at the Comb * We'll rig in Meath-street Egypt's haughty queen; And Anthony fhall court her in ratteen. In fhort, our kings and princeffes within Oh! cou'd I fee this audience clad in stuff, Though money's fcarce, we fhou'd have trade enough: But chints, brocades, and lace take all away, And scarce a crown is left to see a play. * A ftreet in Dublin famous for woollen manufactures. Perhaps Perhaps you wonder whence this friendship fprings Between the weavers, and us play-house kings: Butwit and weaving had the fame beginning; Pallas firft taught us poetry and spinning. And next obferve how this alliance fits, For weavers now are just as poor as wits: Their brother quill-men, workers for the ftage, For forry stuff can get a crown a page ; But weavers will be kinder to the players,. And fell for twenty pence a yard of theirs: And, to your knowledge, there is often less in The poet's wit, than in the player's dreffing. EPITAPH on a MISER. BENE ENEATH this verdant hillock lies Το Who collected and tranfcribed his Poems. 1720. AS, when a lofty pile is rais'd, We never hear the workmen prais'd, Who bring the lime, or place the ftones; But all admire Inigo Jones: So, if this pile of scatter'd rhymes Thou, Stella, wer't no longer young, In all the habitudes of life, The friend, the mistress, and the wife, In pleasure seek, for fomething new; Whom Stella chufes for a friend. A poet A poet ftarving in a garret, He flies, and leaves the stars behind; Or, fhou'd a porter make enquiries These are the goddesses enroll'd * A cant word for ftrong beer. See an account of Curll, Vol. IV. Whofe |