Cin.  Sir, I beseech you, mitigate your Grief,
Although indeed we are but mortal Men,
Yet we shall love you, serve you, and obey you.

Doct.  Are not you then the Emperor of the Moon?  And you the Prince of Thunderland?

Cin.  There’s no such Person, Sir. 
These Stories are the Fantoms of mad Brains,
To puzzle Fools withal—­the Wise laugh at ’em—­
Come, Sir, you shall no longer be impos’d upon.

Doct.  No Emperor of the Moon, and no Moon World!

Char.  Ridiculous Inventions. 
If we ’ad not lov’d you you’ad been still impos’d on;
You had brought a Scandal on your learned Name,
And all succeeding Ages had despis’d it.

[Doct. leaps up.

Doct.  Burn all my Books and let my study blaze, Burn all to Ashes, and be sure the Wind Scatter the vile contagious monstrous Lyes.  —­Most Noble Youths—­you’ve honour’d me with your Alliance, and you, and all your Friends, Assistances in this glorious Miracle, I invite to Night to revel with me.—­Come all and see my happy Recantation of all the Follies, Fables have inspir’d till now.  Be pleasant to repeat your Story, to tell me by what kind degrees you cozen’d me.  I see there’s nothing in Philosophy—­ [Gravely to himself.  Of all that writ, he was the wisest Bard, who spoke this mighty Truth—­

  “He that knew all that ever Learning writ,
  Knew only this—­that he knew nothing yet.”

[Exeunt.

EPILOGUE,

To be spoken by Mrs. Cooke.

With our old Plays, as with dull Wife it fares,
To whom you have been marry’d tedious Years. 
You cry--She’s wondrous good, it is confessed, |
But still ’tis Chapon Boueille at the best; |
That constant Dish can never make a Feast:  |
Yet the pall’d Pleasure you must still pursue,
You give so small Incouragement for new;
And who would drudge for such a wretched Age,
Who want the Bravery to support one Stage? 
The wiser Wits have now new Measures set,
And taken up new Trades that they may hate. 
No more your nice fantastick Pleasures serve,
Your Pimps you pay, but let your Poets starve,
They long in vain for better Usage hop’d,
Till quite undone and tir’d, they dropt and dropt;
Not one is left will write for thin third Day,
Like desperate Pickeroons, no Prize no Pay;
And when they have done their best, the Recompence
Is, Damn the Sot, his Play wants common Sense,
Ill-natured Wits, who can so ill requite
The drudging Slaves, who for your Pleasure write.