EPILOGUE.

WRITTEN BY A FRIEND.

AT length our bard has told kis dismal støry—
He thinks-without offence to Whig or Tory.
He writes not from a spirit of contention ;
And only on third night expects-his pension.
Ladies, when civil dudgeon first grew high,
And the good folks fell out-they knew not why.
A stubborn race, no doubt on 't, were those Round-heads,
Rebels at once to female power, and crown'd-heads:
But now, bless'd change! our heroes give their votes
For government of kings, and petticoats.

Had we then liv'd-what crowds of volunteers!
Down with the Rump, and hey for Cavaliers!
In those prim times, our grandmothers of yore
Preferr'd a pray'r-book to a matadore:
At court, each turtle only lov'd her mate,
And no intrigues went on-but those of state.
What odious Salique law ('t was none of nature)
Excludes us women from the legislature?
Could we assemble once in convocation,
How purely would we settle all the nation!

Lovers and op'ras should employ our cares,
Cards, masquerades, and such-like state affairs:
Debates, like a male senate, we could handle;
And move, as well as they, to-snuff a candle:
Our ayes and noes with one shrill voice declare,
And none be mutes, but all, all speakers there.
Now, on our stage, while Charles once more is try'd,
He hopes none here can prove a regicide:

A milder sentence to receive, his trust is,
Tremendous pit, in your high court of justice.
If bravely you'd support the good old cause,
Atone your fathers' crimes by your applause;
Lay not a barb'rous tax on your good-nature,
Nor raise in spleen the funds of wit, by satire.