Serv. I am ready, Sir, for all you shall Command.

Capt. Oh Jealousie, thou sickness of great souls,
To what a Rage didst thou transport this Lord? 
For had his Wife been false it was not good
By Murd’ring her to drown himself in Blood;

  For Lust may be Excus’d since flesh is frail,
  But Murder on the Soul does guilt Entail.

The Curtain Falls.

EPILOGUE

By Mr. Harris.

A Tragedy, and not Heroick Verse,
The Comick part fit only for a Farse;
No Atheism, nor any man we know
Abus’d, no repartee, nor splendid show;
But very little Bawdy, and less wit,
The Devil’s in’t, crys one, is this Play hit. 
Faith—­may be not, and may be too it will,
For Chance sometimes exceeds all rules of skill. 
As he who Rageing did his Pencil throw,
And Painted that by chance, he could not draw
For we have seen, and lately too, a Play
Cry’d down by those that cannot keep away
And when they come spight of themselves they stay. 
And to our sorrow we have others known,
That for their wit have Wit it self out-done,
And yet you wits, that praise ’em seldom come. 
So the Goodman, oft-times for cause unknown,
Leaves well-drest Beauteous Wife for Homely Joan. 
And you that Misses keep too, I’m afraid
Do sometimes make e’m Jealous of the Maid;
So if this Play not drest by rules of Art
Should with some Trick of Nature catch the heart;
We’d give you leave to rail, and never fear,
Because we’re sure you’d come to do it here. 
Gallants you see what e’re you say or do,
Plays will be writ, and we shall Act ’em too. 
Some will for pleasure, some for profit write,
Some for Applause, and some will do’t in spight,
Such bit by Critticks, strait run mad and bite. 
This does our bu’sness; but we’d have you know,
We wish we’d none but true brisk wit to show,
We silence wish that Men might hear a Play,
And wish that Vizard Mask would keep away: 
But we as well might wish we were those Kings
We sometimes Act, as hope to see these things. 
Then since to rail o’th’ Stage and in the Pit,
Must in this sickly Age be counted Wit;
And that th’ Infection cannot be subdu’d,
We Actors for our own sakes do conclude,
The Itch to write and rail will ne’re be cur’d,
And therefore faith let ’em be both Endur’d.

FINIS.

ERRATA.

[Transcriber’s Note:  These corrections were included in the printed book.  The uncorrected line is given in brackets for reference.  Additional changes and problems are listed at the end of this text.]