Epilogue to "An Evening's Love; or, The Mock Astrologer"

My part being small, I have had time to-day
To mark your various censures of our play:
First, looking for a judgment or a wit,
Like Jews I saw 'em scatter'd thro' the pit;
And where a knot of smilers lent an ear
To one that talk'd, I knew the foe was there.
The club of jests went round; he who had none
Borrow'd o' th' next, and told it for his own.
Among the rest they kept a fearful stir
In whisp'ring that he stole th' Astrologer;
And said, betwixt a French and English plot
He eas'd his half-tir'd Muse, on pace and trot.
Up starts a Mounsieur, new come o'er and warm
In the French stoop, and the pull-back o' th' arm:
"Morbleu," dit-il, and cocks, "I am a rogue,
But he has quite spoil'd The Feign'd Astrologer;
"Pox," says another, "here 's so great a stir
With a son of a whore farce that 's regular;
A rule, where nothing must decorum shock!
Damme, 't is as dull as dining by the clock.
An evening! Why the devil should we be vex'd
Whether he gets the wench this night or next?"
When I heard this, I to the poet went,
Told him the house was full of discontent,
And ask'd him what excuse he could invent.
He neither swore nor storm'd as poets do,
But, most unlike an author, vow'd 'twas true;
Yet said, he us'd the French like enemies,
And did not steal their plots, but made 'em prize.
But should he all the pains and charges count
Of taking 'em, the bill so high would mount
That, like prize-goods, which thro' the office come,
He could have had 'em much more cheap at home.
He still must write, and, banquier-like, each day
Accept new bills, and he must break or pay.
When thro' his hands such sums must yearly run,
You cannot think the stock is all his own.
His haste his other errors might excuse,
But there 's no mercy for a guilty Muse;
For, like a mistress, she must stand or fall,
And please you to a height, or not at all.