EPILOGUE.

YE modest matrons all, ye virtuous wives,
Who lead with horrid husbands, decent lives;
You, who, for all you are in such a taking,
To see your spouses drinking, gaming, raking,
Yet make a conscience still of cuckold-making;
What can we say your pardon to obtain ?
This matter here was prov'd against poor Jane:
She never once deny'd it; but, in short,
Whimper'd-and cry'd-" Sweet Sir, I'm sorry for't."
'Twas well he met a kind, good-natur'd soul,

We are not all so easy to control:

I fancy one might find in this good town,
Some wou'd ha' told the gentleman his own;
Have answer'd smart-" To what do you pretend,
"Blockhead?-As if I must not see a friend:
"Tell me of hackney coaches—Jaunts to th' city—
"Where should I buy my china ?-Faith, I'll fit ye❞—
Our wife was of a milder, meeker spirit;

You!-lords and masters!—was not that some merit?
Don't you allow it to be virtuous bearing,
When we submit thus to your domineering?
Well, peace be with her, she did wrong most surely;
But so do many more who look demurely.
Nor shou'd our mourning madam weep alone,

There are more ways of wickedness than one.

If the reforming stage should fall to shaming
Ill-nature, pride, hypocrisy, and gaming;
The poets frequently might move compassion,
And with she-tragedies o'er-run the nation.
Then judge the fair offender with good-nature,
And let your fellow-feeling curb your satire.
What, if our neighbours have some little failing,
Must we needs fall to damning and to railing?
For her excuse too, be it understood,

That if the woman was not quite so good,
Her lover was a king, she flesh and blood.
And since sh' has dearly paid the sinful score,
Be kind at last, and pity poor Jane Shore.

THE END.