On our own Terms will flow the wish’d-for Peace,
All Wars, except ’twixt Man and Wife, will cease. 
The Grand Monarch may wish his Son a Throne,
But hardly will advance to lose his own. 
This Season most things bear a smiling Face;
But Play’rs in Summer have a dismal Case,
Since your Appearance only is our Act of Grace. 
Court Ladies will to Country Seats be gone,
My Lord can’t all the Year live Great in Town,
Where wanting Opera’s, Basset, and a Play,
They’ll Sigh and stitch a Gown, to pass the time away. 
Gay City-Wives at Tunbridge will appear,
Whose Husbands long have laboured for an Heir;
Where many a Courtier may their Wants relieve,
But by the Waters only they Conceive. 
The Fleet-street Sempstress—­Toast of Temple Sparks,
That runs Spruce Neckcloths for Attorney’s Clerks;
At Cupid’s Gardens will her Hours regale,
Sing fair Dorinda, and drink Bottl’d Ale. 
At all Assemblies, Rakes are up and down,
And Gamesters, where they think they are not known. 
  Shou’d I denounce our Author’s fate to Day,
To cry down Prophecies, you’d damn the Play: 
Yet Whims like these have sometimes made you Laugh;
’Tis Tattling all, like Isaac Bickerstaff. 
  Since War, and Places claim the Bards that write,
Be kind, and bear a Woman’s Treat to-Night;
Let your Indulgence all her Fears allay,
And none but Woman-Haters damn this Play.

EPILOGUE.

In me you see one Busie-Body more;
Tho’ you may have enough of one before. 
With Epilogues, the Busie-Body’s Way,
We strive to help; but sometimes mar a Play. 
At this mad Sessions, half condemn’d e’er try’d,
Some, in three Days, have been turn’d off, and dy’d,
In spight of Parties, their Attempts are vain,
For like false Prophets, they ne’er rise again. 
Too late, when cast, your Favour one beseeches,
And Epilogues prove Execution Speeches. 
Yet sure I spy no Busie-Bodies here;
And one may pass, since they do ev’ry where. 
Sowr Criticks, Time and Breath, and Censures waste,
And baulk your Pleasure to refine your Taste. 
One busie Don ill-tim’d high Tenets Preaches,
Another yearly shows himself in Speeches. 
Some snivling Cits, wou’d have a Peace for spight,
To starve those Warriours who so bravely fight. 
Still of a Foe upon his Knees affraid;
Whose well-hang’d Troops want Money, Heart, and Bread. 
Old Beaux, who none not ev’n themselves can please,
Are busie still; for nothing—­but to teize
The Young, so busie to engage a Heart,
The Mischief done, are busie most to part. 
Ungrateful Wretches, who still cross ones Will,
When they more kindly might be busie still! 
One to a Husband, who ne’er dreamt of Horns,
Shows how dear Spouse, with Friend his Brows adorns.