Alex. To him that is most worthy.

Per. When will you, sacred sir, that we should give To your great memory those divine honours

Which such exalted virtue does deserve?

Alex. When you are all most happy and in peace.
Your hands-Oh, father! if I have discharg'd
The duty of a man to empire born;
f by unweary'd toils I have deserv'd
The vast renown of thy adopted son,

Accept this soul which thou did'st first inspire,
And which this sigh thus gives thee back again! [Dies.
Lys. There fell the pride and glory of the war.
If there be treason let us find it out,

Lysimachus stands forth to lead you on,

And swears, by these most honour'd dear remains, He will not taste those joys which beauty brings Until he has reveng'd the best of kings.

[Exeunt.

1

EPILOGUE.

WHATE'ER they mean, yet ought they to be curst
Who this censorious age did polish first,
Who the best play for one poor error blame,
As priests against our ladies' arts declaim,
And for one patch both soul and body damn.
But what does more provoke the actor's rage,
(For we must show the grievance of the stage)
Is that our women which adorn each play,
Bred at our cost, become at length our prey:
While green and sour like trees we bear them all,
But when they're mellow straight to you they fall;
You watch them bare and squab, and let them rest,
But with the first young down you snatch the nest.
Pray leave those poaching tricks if you are wise,
Ere we take out our letters of reprise;

For we have vow'd to find a sort of toys

Known to black friars, a tribe of chopping boys;
If once they come they'll quickly spoil your sport;
There's not one lady will receive your court:
But for the youth in petticoats run wild,
With, oh! the archest wag, the sweetest child,
The panting breast, white hands, and lily feet!
No more shall your pall'd thoughts with pleasure meet:

The woman in boy's clothes all boy shall be,
And never raise your thoughts above the knee.
Well, if our women knew how false you are,
They would stay here, and this new trouble spare:
Poor souls! they think all gospel you relate,
Charm'd with the noise of settiing an estate;
But when at last your appetites are full,
And the tir'd Cupid grows with action dull,
You'll find some tricks to cut off the entail,
And send them back to us all worn and stale.
Perhaps they'll find our stage, while they have rang'd
To some vile canting conventicle, chang'd;
Where for the sparks who once resorted there,
With their curl'd wigs that scented all the air,
They'll see grave blockheads with short greasy hair,
Green aprons, steeple-hats, and collar-bands,
Dull sniv'ling rogues that ring-not clap their hands,
Where for gay punks that drew the shining crowd,
And misses that in vizards laugh'd aloud,
They'll hear young sister's sigh, see matrons old
To their chopp'd cheeks their pickled kerchers hold,
Whose zeal too might persuade, in spite to you,
Our flying angels to augment their crew,
While Farringdon their hero struts about 'em.
And ne'er a damning critic dares to flout 'em.