EPILOGUE
TO THE JEW OF VENICE.
Each in his turn, the poet[1] and the prieſt,[2]
Have view’d the ſtage, but like falſe prophets gueſt.
The man of zeal, in his religious rage,
Would ſilence poets, and reduce the ſtage.
The poet, raſhly to get clear, retorts5
On kings the ſcandal, and beſpatters courts.
Both err; for, without mincing, to be plain,
The guilt ’s your own of ev’ry odious ſcene.
The preſent time ſtill gives the ſtage its mode;
The vices that you practiſe we explode:10
We hold the glaſs, and but reflect your ſhame,
Like Spartans, by expoſing to reclaim.
The ſcribbler, pinch’d with hunger, writes to dine,
And to your genius muſt conform his line;
Not lewd by choice, but merely to ſubmit.15
Would you encourage ſenſe, ſenſe would be writ.
Good plays we try, which, aster the firſt day,
Unſeen we act, and to bare benches play.
Plain ſenſe, which pleas’d your ſires an age ago,
Is loſt without the garniture of ſhow.20
At vaſt expenſe we labour to our ruin,
And court your favour with our own undoing.
