THE EPILOGUE TO Mr. LACY's New Play, Sir HERCULES BUFFOON, or the Poetical Esquire.
MEthinks (Right Worthy Friends) you seem to sit,
As if you had all ta'ne Physick in the Pit;
When the Play's done, your jaded Fancies pall;
After Enjoyment, thus 'tis with us all.
You are
Meer Epicures in thinking, and, in fine,
As difficult to please in Playes, as Wine:
You've no true taste of either, judge at randome,
And Cry—De Gustibus non disputandum.
One's for Vin d' Hermitage, Loves Lofty inditing;
Another Old Hoc, he a style that's biting;
Both hate Champaign, and Damn soft natural Writing.
And some forsooth
Love Rhenish Wine and Sugar; Playes in meeter,
Like Dead Wine, swallowing Nonsence, Rhimes make sweeter:
There's one's for a Cup of Nants, and he, 'tis odds
Like Old Buffoon, loves Plays that swinge the Gods.
True English Topers Racy Sack ne're fail,
With such Ben Johnsons Humming Plays prevail;
Whil'st some at Tricks, and Grimace, only fleer;
To such, must Noisy, Frothy, Farce appear;
These new Wits Relish, small, smart, Bottle Beer.
French Gouts, that mingle Water with their Wine,
Cry—Ah de French Song Gosoun Dat is ver' fine.
[Page] Who never Drink without a Relishing Bit,
Scapin methinks such Sickly tasts might hit;
Where we entertain each Squeamish, nicer Palat,
With Sawce of Dances, and with Songs for Salat:
Since then 'tis so hard to please, (with choicest Dyet)
Our Guests, wh' in wit and sence do daily Ryot;
Since Wit is Damn'd by those, whom Wits we call,
As Love that stands by Love, by Love does fall,
When Fools, both good and bad, like Whores, swallow all.
'I wish, for your sakes, the Sham Wits o'th' Nation
'Would take to some honest, some thriving Vocation.
'The Wit of our Feet you see every Night,
'Says more to our purpose than all you can Write.
'Since things are thus carried, a Wit's such a Tool,
'He that makes the best Plays, do's but best play the Fool.
A Dreaded Fool's your Bully,
A Wealthy Fool's your Cit,
A Contented Fool's your Cully,
But your Fool of Fool's your Wit:
They all Fool Cit of 's Wife,
He Fools them of their Pelfe;
But your Wit's so damn'd a Fool,
He only Fools himself.
Oh! Wits, then face about to sence, Alas!
I know it by my self, a Wit's an Ass;
For (like you) in my time,
I've been Foolish in Rhyme,
But now, so repent the Nonsensical Crime;
I speak it in tears, which from me may seem odly,
Henceforth I'le grow wiser, (Dam' Wit) I'le be Godly;
That when by New Grace I have wip'd off old staines,
In time I may Pass, not for Count, but Sir Haynes.
LONDON, Printed for Joseph Hindmarsh, Bookseller to His ROYAL HIGHNESS, living at the Black Bull in Cornhill. 1684.