_Gay_. Cruel Tormenter! Oh, I could kill myself with shame and anger! L. _Ful_. Come hither, _Bredwel_--witness for my Honour--that I had no design upon his Person, but that of trying his Constancy. _Bred_. Believe me, Sir, ‘tis true--I feigned a danger near--just as you got to bed--and I was the kind Devil, Sir, that brought the Gold to you. _Bea_. And you were one of the Devils that beat me, and the Captain here, Sir? _Gay_. No truly, Sir, those were some I hired--to beat you for abusing me to day. _Noi_. To make you ‘mends, Sir, I bring you the certain News of the death of Sir _Thomas Gayman_, your Uncle, who has left you Two thousand pounds a year-- _Gay_. I thank you, Sir--I heard the news before. Sir _Cau_. How’s this; Mr. _Gayman_, my Lady’s first Lover? I find, Sir _Feeble_, we were a couple of old Fools indeed, to think at our Age to cozen two lusty young Fellows of their Mistresses; ‘tis no wonder that both the Men and the Women have been too hard for us; we are not fit Matches for either, that’s the truth on’t. _The Warrior needs must to his Rival yield, Who comes with blunted Weapons to the Field_. EPILOGUE. Written by a Person of Quality, Spoken by Mr. _Betterton_. _Long have we turn’d the point of our just Rage On the half Wits, and Criticks of the Age. Oft has the soft, insipid Sonneteer In_ Nice _and_ Flutter, _seen his Fop-face here. Well was the ignorant lampooning Pack Of shatterhead Rhymers whip’d on_ Craffey’s _back; But such a trouble Weed is Poetaster, The lower ‘tis cut down, it grows the faster. Though Satir then had such a plenteous crop, An After Math of Coxcombs is come up; Who not content false Poetry to renew, By sottish Censures wou’d condemn the true. Let writing like a Gentleman--fine appear, But must you needs judge too_ en Cavalier? _These whiffling Criticks, ‘tis our Auth’ress fears, And humbly begs a Trial by her Peers: Or let a Pole of Fools her fate pronounce, There’s no great harm in a good quiet Dunce. But shield her, Heaven! from the left-handed blow Of airy Blockheads who pretend to know. On downright Dulness let her rather split, Than be Fop-mangled under colour of Wit.