[To them] LADY TOUCHWOOD runs out affrighted, my lord after her, like a parson.
LADY TOUCH. Oh, I'm betrayed. Save me, help me!
LORD TOUCH. Now what evasion, strumpet?
LADY TOUCH. Stand off, let me go.
LORD TOUCH. Go, and thy own infamy pursue thee. You stare as you were all amazed,--I don't wonder at it,--but too soon you'll know mine, and that woman's shame.
SCENE the last.
LORD TOUCHWOOD, LORD FROTH, LADY FROTH, LADY PLYANT, SIR PAUL, CYNTHIA, MELLEFONT, MASKWELL, MELLEFONT disguised in a parson's habit and pulling in MASKWELL.
MEL. Nay, by heaven you shall be seen. Careless, your hand. Do you hold down your head? Yes, I am your chaplain, look in the face of your injured friend; thou wonder of all falsehood.
LORD TOUCH. Are you silent, monster?
MEL. Good heavens! How I believed and loved this man! Take him hence, for he's a disease to my sight.
LORD TOUCH. Secure that manifold villain. [Servants seize him.]
CARE. Miracle of ingratitude!
BRISK. This is all very surprising, let me perish.
LADY FROTH. You know I told you Saturn looked a little more angry than usual.
LORD TOUCH. We'll think of punishment at leisure, but let me hasten to do justice in rewarding virtue and wronged innocence. Nephew, I hope I have your pardon, and Cynthia's.
MEL. We are your lordship's creatures.
LORD TOUCH. And be each other's comfort. Let me join your hands.
Unwearied nights, and wishing days attend you both; mutual love, lasting health, and circling joys, tread round each happy year of your long lives.
Let secret villany from hence be warned;
Howe'er in private mischiefs are conceived, Torture and shame attend their open birth;
Like vipers in the womb, base treachery lies, Still gnawing that, whence first it did arise;
No sooner born, but the vile parent dies.
[Exeunt Omnes.]
EPILOGUE--Spoken by Mrs. Mountford.
Could poets but foresee how plays would take, Then they could tell what epilogues to make;
Whether to thank or blame their audience most.
But that late knowledge does much hazard cost:
Till dice are thrown, there's nothing won, nor lost.
So, till the thief has stolen, he cannot know Whether he shall escape the law, or no.
But poets run much greater hazards far Than they who stand their trials at the bar.
The law provides a curb for it's own fury, And suffers judges to direct the jury:
But in this court, what difference does appear!
For every one's both judge and jury here;
Nay, and what's worse, an executioner.
All have a right and title to some part, Each choosing that in which he has most art.
The dreadful men of learning all confound, Unless the fable's good, and moral sound.
The vizor-masks, that are in pit and gallery, Approve, or damn, the repartee and raillery.
The lady critics, who are better read, Inquire if characters are nicely bred;
If the soft things are penned and spoke with grace;
They judge of action too, and time, and place;
In which we do not doubt but they're discerning, For that's a kind of assignation learning.
Beaus judge of dress; the witlings judge of songs;
The cuckoldom, of ancient right, to cits belongs.
Thus poor poets the favour are denied Even to make exceptions, when they're tried.
'Tis hard that they must every one admit:
Methinks I see some faces in the pit Which must of consequence be foes to wit.
You who can judge, to sentence may proceed;
But though he cannot write, let him be freed At least from their contempt who cannot read.
