Prologue and Epilogue to Sir Martin Mar-all, or the Feigned Innocence

PROLOGUE.

FOOLS, which each man meets in his Dish each Day,

Are yet the great Regalio’s of a Play;

In which to Poets you but just appear,

To prize that highest which cost them so dear:

Fops in the Town more easily will pass;

One story makes a statutable Ass;

But such in Plays must be much thicker sown,

Like yolks of Eggs, a dozen beat to one.

Observing Poets all their walks invade,

As men watch Woodcocks gliding through a Glade:

And when they have enough for Comedy,

They stow their several Bodies in a Pye:

The Poet’s but the Cook to fashion it,

For, Gallants, you yourselves have found the Wit.

To bid you welcome would your bounty wrong;

None welcome those who bring their Chear along.

EPILOGUE

As country Vicars, when the Sermon’s done,

Run hudling to the Benediction;

Well knowing, though the better sort may stay,

The Vulgar Rout will run unblesst away:

So we, when once our Play is done, make haste

With a short Epilogue to close your taste.

In thus withdrawing, we seem mannerly;

But, when the Curtain’s down we peep and see

A Jury of the Wits, who still stay late,

And in their Club decree the poor Plays fate;

Their Verdict back is to the Boxes brought,

Thence all the Town pronounces it their thought.

Thus, Gallants, we like Lilly can foresee;

But if you ask us what our doom will be,

We by to morrow will our Fortune cast,

As he tells all things when the Year is past.