The Epilogue. 
Writ by Mr. Dreyden, Spoke before His MAJESTY at Oxford, March 19 1680.   
AS from a darkened Room some Optic Glass  
Transmits' the distant Species as they pass,  
The World's large Landscape is from far descried,  
And men contracted on the Paper glide:  
Thus crowded OXFORD represents Mankind,  
And in these Walls Great Britain seems confined;  
OXFORD is now the Public Theatre,  
And you both Audience are and Actors here:  
The gazing World on the New Scene attend,  
Admire the Turns, and wish a prosperous end.  
This place the Seat of Peace; the quiet Cell,  
Where Arts removed from noisy business dwell,  
Should calm your Wills, Unite the Jarring parts,  
And with a kind Contagion seize your hearts.  
Oh! may its Genius like soft Music move,  
And Tune you all to Concord and to Love:  
Our Ark that hath in Tempest long been tossed,  
Could never Land on so secure a Coast.  
From hence you may look back on Civil rage,  
And view the Ruins of the former Age:  
Here a New World its Glories may unfold,  
And here be Saved the Remnants of the Old.  
But while your Day-sun public thoughts are bend  
Past ills to heal, and Future to prevent,  
Some vacant hours allow to your delight;  
Mirth is the pleasing business of the night,  
The King's Prerogative, The People's Right:  
Were all your hours to Sullen Cares confined,  
The body would be Jaded by the mind.  
'Tis Wisdom's part betwixt Extremes to steer,  
Be Gods in Senates, but be Mortals here.   

LONDON, Printed for Rich. Royston.