Tho' modern Prophets were expos'd of late, The Author cou'd not Prophesie his Fate; If with such Scenes an Audience had been Fir'd, The Poet must have really been Inspir'd. But these, alas! are Melancholy Days For Modern Prophets, and for Modern Plays. Yet since Prophetick Lyes please Fools o'Fashion, And Women are so fond of Agitation; To Men of Sense, I'll Prophesie anew, And tell you wond'rous things, that will prove true: _Undaunted Collonels will to Camps repair,_ _Assur'd, there'll be no Skirmishes this Year;_ On our own Terms will flow the wish'd-for Peace, All Wars, except 'twixt Man and Wife, will cease. The Grand Monarch may wish his Son a Throne, But hardly will advance to lose his own. This Season most things bear a smiling Face; But Play'rs in Summer have a dismal Case, Since your Appearance only is our Act of Grace. Court Ladies will to Country Seats be gone, My Lord can't all the Year live Great in Town, Where wanting _Opera's_, _Basset_, and a _Play_, 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.