They'll Sigh and stitch a Gown, to pass the time away.
Gay City-Wives at _Tunbridge_ will appear,
Whose Husbands long have laboured for an Heir;
Where many a Courtier may their Wants relieve,
But by the Waters only they Conceive.
The _Fleet-street_ Sempstress--Toast of _Temple_ Sparks,
That runs Spruce Neckcloths for Attorney's Clerks;
At _Cupid_'s _Gardens_ will her Hours regale,
Sing fair _Dorinda_, and drink Bottl'd Ale.
At all Assemblies, Rakes are up and down,
And Gamesters, where they think they are not known.
Shou'd I denounce our Author's fate to Day,
To cry down Prophecies, you'd damn the Play:
Yet Whims like these have sometimes made you Laugh;
'Tis Tattling all, like _Isaac Bickerstaff_.
Since War, and Places claim the Bards that write,
Be kind, and bear a Woman's Treat to-Night;
Let your Indulgence all her Fears allay,
And none but Woman-Haters damn this Play.




EPILOGUE.


In me you see one _Busie-Body_ more;
Tho' you may have enough of one before.
With Epilogues, the _Busie-Body_'s Way,
We strive to help; but sometimes mar a Play.