The Epilogue.

THe Play, great Sir, is done; yet needs must fear,
Though you brought all your Fathers Mercies here,
It may offend your Highness, and we'have now
Three hours done Treason here for ought we know.
But power your grace can above Nature give,
It can give power to make Abortives Live.
In which if our bold wishes should be crost,
'Tis but the Life of one poor week t'has lost;
Though it should fall beneath your mortal scorn,
Scarce could it Dye more quickly then 'twas Born.