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EPILOGUE.


'Tis ten to one this play can never please

All that are here: some come to take their ease,

And sleep an act or two; but those, we fear,

We have frighted with our trumpets; so, 'tis clear,

They'll say 'tis naught: others, to hear the city

Abused extremely, and to cry 'That's witty!'

Which we have not done neither: that, I fear,

All the expected good we 're like to hear

For this play at this time, is only in (10)

The merciful construction of good women;

For such a one we show'd 'em: if they smile,

And say 'twill do, I know, within a while

All the best men are ours; for 'tis ill hap,

If they hold when their ladies bid 'em clap.

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