EPILOGUE.
Spoke by Mrs. Bracegirdle.
I Who have bin the Poets Spark to day,
Will now appear the Champion of this Play,
Know all, that would pretend to my good Grace,
I mortally Dislike a damning Face:
Pleas'd or displeas'd; no matter now, 'tis past.
The first that dares be angry, breathes his last.
Who shall presume to doubt my Will and Pleasure,
Him I defie, to send his Weapons measure.
If War you chuse, and Blood must needs be spilt here;
By Jove, let me alone to match your Tilter.
I'll give you satisfaction if I can,
Death! 'tis not the first time I have kill'd my Man.
On pain of being posted to your Sorrow,
Fail not at Four to meet me here to morrow.
Will now appear the Champion of this Play,
Know all, that would pretend to my good Grace,
I mortally Dislike a damning Face:
Pleas'd or displeas'd; no matter now, 'tis past.
The first that dares be angry, breathes his last.
Who shall presume to doubt my Will and Pleasure,
Him I defie, to send his Weapons measure.
If War you chuse, and Blood must needs be spilt here;
By Jove, let me alone to match your Tilter.
I'll give you satisfaction if I can,
Death! 'tis not the first time I have kill'd my Man.
On pain of being posted to your Sorrow,
Fail not at Four to meet me here to morrow.
EINIS.