Classic Poem

Of all the tricks , these Poets bring in vogue,
Methinks, their strangest whim , is Epilogue:
Hard task, on us, poor damsels of the stage!
A Bard 's long, tiresome, bauble , fires your rage ;
And, when that rage inflames you, to abhor him,
He pops in one of us , to cool you, for him.

'T IS an ungentle treatment, to perplex ,
With strongest danger, thus, the weakest sex,
Troth, one wou'd think — but custom 's hard to stem ,
That they shou'd do for us — not we for them!
At least, since each was made , to join with either ,
In downright conscience, both shou'd move, together .

But, be it so! — I care not, tho' I venture ,
Cou'd I but see, on what soft side to enter:
Grave Gentlemen! — some , of you, look so sadly ,
That troth! I fear — I shall come off but badly .
Yet, hang it, I'm engag'd — th' event I'll try ,
And, if I'm doom'd to fall — why there I lie .

F OR our new Author , then, and for his Play ,
I have one vast, important truth to say:
Smile , on his hopes , do — for my sake, forbear him,

Not, that my wishes bid your Justice spare him:
But shou'd you not — you will but make me trouble!
He'll write , till you approve , and plague me, double .