An Epilogue For The Tragedy Poem by Nicholas Amhurst

Well--I suppose you now sit all agog
In hopes to hear a smutty Epilogue,
With filthy Meanings couch'd in modern Guise;
Ye wicked Toads! I read it in your Eyes;
Gad! you're of late so horrid vicious grown,
Nothing but fulsom Lewdness will go down;
Your Palate's so debauch'd, you cannot eat
Without provoking Sauce, the nicest Meat,

Dearly you love the bold intriguing Blade,
And chuckle, when an Assignation's made,
Yet little dream, that often, while you come,
To laugh at other Men, you'r dub'd at home.
How many of you if the Truth were known,
Point at your Neighbour's Horns, to screen your own?
So one gay Ideot when he sees another,
Makes senseless Jokes, and titters at his Brother.

You thought, perhaps, I'd sneer my Husband's Fate,
With lewd Reflections on the Marriage--State;
Did you, sweet Sirs?--No, faith, you're all mistaken,
I shall not speak one Word for Cuckold--making.
Indeed our most obliging Bard to day
Has made me something modish in his Play:
But durst he hint it once behind the Scenes,
I'd ask the pert young Puppy--what he means;
For let me tell you, that Prince Condi's Wife,
Bad as you think her, leads an honest Life.

Shame on such foul Corrupters of the Age!
What! would you make a Brothel of the Stage?
No Play of late can be obscene enough;
Think ye, the Ladies like such paw--paw Stuff?
Sorely against our Will we act such Parts,
And speak the naughty Words with grumbling Hearts;
Yet now and then forsooth we must comply
With your politer Taste--good Reason why;
For should we dare to thwart your wanton Vein,
You'd starve us quite, and flock to Drury--Lane.