[To the
Masquers. Will. Whilst we'll to the Good Man within, who stays to give
us a Cast of his Office. [To Hell. -Have you no trembling at the near
approach? Hell. No more than you have in an Engagement or a Tempest.
Will. Egad, thou'rt a brave Girl, and I admire thy Love and Courage.
Lead on, no other Dangers they can dread, Who venture in the Storms
o'th' Marriage-Bed. [Exeunt. EPILOGUE. THE banisht Cavaliers! a Roving
Blade! A popish Carnival! a Masquerade! The Devil's in't if this will
please the Nation, In these our blessed Times of Reformation, When
Conventicling is so much in Fashion. And yet- That mutinous Tribe less
Factions do beget, Than your continual differing in Wit; Your
Judgment's (as your Passions) a Disease: Nor Muse nor Miss your
Appetite can please; You're grown as nice as queasy Consciences, Whose
each Convulsion, when the Spirit moves, Damns every thing that Maggot
disapproves With canting Rule you wou'd the Stage refine, And to dull
Method all our Sense confine. With th' Insolence of Common-wealths you
rule, Where each gay Fop, and politick brave Fool On Monarch Wit
impose without controul. As for the last who seldom sees a Play,
Unless it be the old Black-Fryers way, Shaking his empty Noddle o'er
Bamboo, He crys- Good Faith, these Plays will never do.
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