His bed friends wou'd not like this over-care:
Or think him e're the ſafer for that pray'r.
Five Praying Saints are by an Act allow'd:
But not the whole Church-Militant, in crowd.
Yet, ſhould heav'n all the true Petitions drain
Of Preshyterians, who wou'd Kings maintain;
Of Forty thouſand, five wou'd ſcarce remain.

The EPILOGUE by the ſame Hand;
     Spoken by Mrs. Sarah Cook.

A Virgin Poet was ſerv'd up to day;
Who till this hour, ne're cackled for a Play :
He's neither yet a Whigg nor Tory-Boy;
But, like a Girl, whom ſeveral wou'd enjoy,
Begs leave to make the beſt of his own natural Toy.
Were I to play my callow Author's game,
The King's Houſe wou'd inſtruct me, by the Name ;
There's Loyalty to one : I wiſh no more :
A Commonwealth founds like a Common Whore.
Let Husband or Gallant be what they will,
One part of Woman is true Tory ſtill.
If any Factious ſpirit ſhou'd rebell,
Our Sex, with eaſe, can every riling quell.
Then, as you hope we ſhou'd your failings hide,
An honeſt Jury for our play provide :
Whiggs, at their Poets never take offence ;
They ſave dull Culpritts who have Murther'd Senſe :
Tho Nonſenſe is a nauſeous heavy Maſs,
The Vehicle call'd Faction makes it paſs.
Faction in Play's the Commonwealths man's bribe:
The leaden farthing of the Canting Tribe:
Though void in payment Laws and Statutes make it,
The Neighborhood, that knows the Man, will take it.
'Tis Faction buys the Votes of half the Pit;
Theirs is the Pention-Parliament of wit.
In City-Clubs their venom let 'em vent ;
For there 'tis ſafe, in its own Element:
Here, where their madneſs can have no pretence,
Let 'em forget themſelves an hour in ſenfe.
In one poor Iſle, why ſhou'd two Factions be ?
Small diffrence in your Vices I can ſee;
In Drink and Drabs both fides too well agree.
Wou'd there were more Preferments in the Land ;
If Places fell, the party cou'd not ſtand.
Of this damn'd grievance ev'ry Whigg complains ;
They grunt like Hogs, till they have got their Grains.
Mean time you ſee what Trade our Plots advance,
We fend each year good Money into France .
And they, that know what Merchahdiſe we need,
Send o're true Proteſtants, to mend our breed.

                        FINIS.

         London, Printed for J. Tonſon.