n two lusty young Fellows of their Mistresses; 'tis no wonder that
both the Men and the Women have been too hard for us; we are not fit
Matches for either, that's the truth on't.

_The Warrior needs must to his Rival yield,
Who comes with blunted Weapons to the Field_.

EPILOGUE.

Written by a Person of Quality, Spoken by Mr. _Betterton_.

_Long have we turn'd the point of our just Rage
On the half Wits, and Criticks of the Age.
Oft has the soft, insipid Sonneteer
In_ Nice _and_ Flutter, _seen his Fop-face here.
Well was the ignorant lampooning Pack
Of shatterhead Rhymers whip'd on_ Craffey's _back;
But such a trouble Weed is Poetaster,
The lower 'tis cut down, it grows the faster.
Though Satir then had such a plenteous crop,
An After Math of Coxcombs is come up;
Who not content false Poetry to renew,
By sottish Censures wou'd condemn the true.
Let writing like a Gentleman--fine appear,
But must you needs judge too_ en Cavalier?
_These whiffling Criticks, 'tis our Auth'ress fears,
And humbly begs a Trial by her Peers:
Or let a Pole of Fools her fate pronounce,
There's no great harm in a good quiet Dunce.
But shield her, Heaven! from the left-handed blow
Of airy Blockheads who pretend to know.
On downright Dulness let her rather split,
Than be Fop-mangled under colour of Wit.

Hear me, ye Scribling Beaus,--
Why will you in sheer Rhyme, without one stroke |
Of Poetry, Ladies just Disdain provoke, |
And address Songs to whom you never spoke? |
In doleful Hymns for dying Felons fit,
Why do you tax their Eyes, and blame their Wit?
Unjustly of the Innocent you complain,
'Tis Bulkers give, and Tubs must cure your pain.
Why in Lampoons will you your selves revile?
'Tis true, none else will think it worth their while:
But thus you're hid! oh, 'tis a politick Fetch;
So some have hang'd themselves to ease_ Jack Ketch.
_Justly your Friends and Mistresses you blame, |
For being so they well deserve the shame, |
'Tis the worst scandal to have borne that name. |
[See the late Satir on Poetry]
At Poetry of late, and such whose Skill |
Excels your own, you dart a feeble Quill; |
Well may you rail at what you ape so ill. |
With virtuous Women, and all Men of Worth,
You're in a state of mortal War by Birth.
Nature in all her Atom-Fights ne'er knew
Two things so opposite as Them and You.
On such your Muse her utmost fury spends,
They're sland