_Whim._ A very fair Discharge. _Whiff._ I’m glad ‘tis no worse, I’ll home to my _Nancy_. _Dull._ Have we expos’d our Lives and Fortunes for this? _Tim._ Gad zoors, I never thriv’d since I was a Statesman, left Planting, and fell to promising and lying; I’ll to my old Trade again, bask under the shade of my own Tobacco, and drink my Punch in Peace. _Well._ _Come, my brave Youths, let all our Forces meet, To make this Country happy, rich and great; Let scanted _Europe_ see that we enjoy Safer Repose, and larger Worlds, than they._ EPILOGUE. Gallants, you have so long been absent hence, That you have almost cool’d your Diligence: For while we study or revive a Play, You like good Husbands in the Country stay, There frugally wear out your Summer-Suit, } And in Frize Jerkin after Beagles toot, } Or in Mountero Caps at Fel-fares shoot: } Nay, some are so obdurate in their Sin, That they swear never to come up again; But all their charge of Clothes and Treat retrench. To Gloves and Stockings for some Country-Wench. Even they who in the Summer had Mishaps, Send up to Town for Physick, for their Claps. The Ladies too, are as resolv’d as they, } And having Debts unknown to them, they stay, } And with the gain of Cheese and Poultry pay. } Even in their Visits, they from Banquets fall, To entertain with Nuts and Bottle-Ale; And in Discourse with secrecy report Stale News that past a Twelve-month since at Court. Those of them who are most refin’d and gay, Now learn the Songs of the last Summer’s Play: While the young Daughter does in private mourn Her Love’s in Town, and hopes not to return. These Country-Grievances too great appear; But, cruel Ladies, we have greater here; You come not sharp, as you were wont, to Plays; But only on the first and second Days: This made our Poet in his Visits look What new strange Courses for your Time you took; And to his great regret he found too soon, _Basset_ and _Ombre_ spent the Afternoon: So that we cannot hope to see you here Before the little Net-work Purse be clear. Suppose you should have luck:-- Yet sitting up so late as I am told, You’ll lose in Beauty what you win in Gold; And what each Lady of another says, Will make you new Lampoons, and us new Plays. * * * * * * * * * NOTES: The Widow Ranter [Transcriber’s Note: The Notes in the printed text give only page and line numbers. Act-and-scene designations shown between +marks+ have been added by the transcriber. Labels such as “Scene IIa” refer to points where the scene description changes without a new scene number.] NOTES ON THE TEXT. +Dedication+ p. 221, l. 1 _To the much Honoured._ This Dedicatory Epistle is only found in the 4to 1690. +Prologue+