Epilogue to "The Tempest"

Gallants, by all good signs it does appear
That sixty-seven 's a very damning year.
For knaves abroad, and for ill poets here.
Among the Muses there 's a gen'ral rot:
The rhyming Mounsieur and the Spanish plot,
Defy or court, all 's one, they go to pot.
The ghosts of poets walk within this place,
And haunt us actors wheresoever we pass,
In visions bloodier than King Richard's was.
For this poor wretch he has not much to say,
But quietly brings in his part o' th' play,
And begs the favor to be damn'd to-day.
He sends me only like a sheriff's man here,
To let you know the malefactor 's near,
And that he means to die en cavalier.
For if you should be gracious to his pen,
Th' example will prove ill to other men,
And you 'll be troubled with 'em all again.