[Footnote 336: "In 1673, the 'Tempest, or the Enchanted Island,' made into an opera by Mr Shadwell, having all new in it, as scenes, machines, &c.: one scene painted with myriads of ærial spirits; and others flying away with a table furnished with fruits, sweetmeats, and all sorts of viands, just when Duke Trinculo and his company were going to dinner. All things were performed so admirably well, that not any succeeding opera could get any money."--_Roscius Anglicanus_, p. 34. Shadwell had also, about this time, produced his opera of "Psyche," which, with the "Tempest" and other pieces depending chiefly upon shew and scenery, were acting in Dorset-Garden, when this Prologue was written. In order to ridicule these splendid exhibitions, the company at Drury-Lane brought forward parodies on them, such as the "Mock Tempest," "Psyche Debauched," &c. These pieces, though written in the meanest style by one Duffet, a low buffoon, had a transient course of success.] EPILOGUE ON THE SAME OCCASION. Though what our Prologue said was sadly true,} Yet, gentlemen, our homely house is new, } A charm that seldom fails with wicked you. } A country lip may have the velvet touch; } Though she's no lady, you may think her such: } A strong imagination may do much. } But you, loud sirs, who through your curls look big, Critics in plume and white vallancy wig, Who, lolling, on our foremost benches sit, And still charge first, the true forlorn of wit; Whose favours, like the sun, warm where you roll, Yet you, like him, have neither heat nor soul; So may your hats your foretops never press, Untouched your ribbons, sacred be your dress; So may you slowly to old age advance, And have the excuse of youth for ignorance; So may fop-corner full of noise remain, And drive far off the dull, attentive train; So may your midnight scourings happy prove, And morning batteries force your way to love; So may not France your warlike hands recal, But leave you by each others swords to fall,[337] As you come here to ruffle vizard punk, When sober rail, and roar when you are drunk. But to the wits we can some merit plead, And urge what by themselves has oft been said: Our house relieves the ladies from the frights Of ill-paved streets, and long dark winter nights; The Flanders horses from a cold bleak road, Where bears in furs dare scarcely look abroad;[338] The audience from worn plays and fustian stuff, Of rhime, more nauseous than three boys in buff.[339] Though in their house the poets' heads[340] appear, We hope we may presume their wits are here. The best which they reserved they now will play, } For, like kind cuckolds, though we've not the way } To please, we'll find you abler men who may. } If they should fail, for last recruits we breed }