Epilogue to Mithridates, King of Pontus

YOU’VE seen a Pair of faithful Lovers die:

And much you care, for most of you will cry,

’Twas a just Judgment on their Constancy.

For, Heaven be thank’d, we live in such an Age,

When no man dies for Love, but on the Stage:

And ev’n those Martyrs are but rare in Plays;

A cursed sign how much true Faith decays:

Love is no more a violent desire;

’Tis a meer Metaphor, a painted Fire.

In all our Sex, the name examin’d well,

Is Pride to gain, and Vanity to tell.

In Woman, ’tis of subtil int’rest made;

Curse on the Punk that made it first a Trade!

She first did Wits Prerogative remove,

And made a Fool presume to prate of Love.

Let Honour and Perferment go for Gold,

But glorious Beauty is not to be sold;

Or, if it be, ’tis at a rate so high,

That nothing but adoring it shou’d buy.

Yet the rich Cullies may their boasting spare;

They purchase but sophisticated Ware.

’Tis Prodigality that buys deceit,

Where both the Giver, and the Taker cheat.

Men but refine on the old Half-Crown way;

And Women fight, like Swizzers, for their Pay.