THE EPILOGUE TO Mr. LACY's New Play, Sir HERCULES BUFFOON, or the Poetical Esquire.  Wrote and Spoke by J. H. Com. 
MEthinks (Right Worthy Friends) you seem to sit,  
As if you had all ta'en Physic in the Pit;  
When the Play's done, your jaded Fancies palls;  
After Enjoyment, thus 'tis with us all.  
You are  
Mere Epicures in thinking, and, in fine,  
As difficult to please in Plays, as Wine:  
You've no true taste of either, judge at random,  
And Cry— De Gustibus non disputandum.  
One's for Vin d' Hermitage, Loves Lofty inditing;  
Another Old Hoc, he a style that's biting;  
Both hate Champaign, and Damn soft natural Writing.  
And some forsooth  
Love Rhenish Wine and Sugar; Plays in meeter,  
Like Dead Wine, swallowing Nonsense, Rhimes make sweeter:  
There's one's for a Cup of Nants, and he, 'tis odds  
Like Old Buffoon, loves Plays that swinge the Gods.  
True English Topers Racy Sack ne'er fail,  
With such Ben Jonson's Humming Plays prevail;  
Whilst some at Tricks, and Grimace, only fleer;  
To such, must Noisy, Frothy, Farce appear;  
These new Wits Relish, small, smart, Bottle Beer.  
French Gouts, that mingle Water with their Wine,  
Cry— Ah de French Song Gosoun Dat is ver fine.  
Who never Drink without a Relishing Bit,  
Scapin methinks such Sickly tastes might hit;  
Where we entertain each Squeamish, nicer palate,  
With Sauce of Dances, and with Songs for Salat:  
Since then 'tis so hard to please, (with choicest Diet)  
Our Guests, wh' in wit and sense do daily Riot;  
Since Wit is Damned by those, whom Wits we call,  
As Love that stands by Love, by Love does fall,  
When Fools, both good and bad, like Whores, swallow all.  
‛ I wish, for your sakes, the Shame Wits o'th' Nation  
‛ Would take to some honest, some thriving Vocation.  
‛ The Wit of our Feet you see every Night,  
‛ Says more to our purpose than all you can Write.  
‛ Since things are thus carried, a Wit's such a Tool,  
‛ He that makes the best Plays, does but best play the Fool.  
A Dreaded Fool's your Bully,  
A Wealthy Fool's your Cit.,  
A Contented Fool's your Cully,  
But your Fool of Fool's your Wit:  
They all Fool Cit of is Wife,  
He Fools them of their Pelf;  
But your Wit's so damned a Fool,  
He only Fools himself.  
Oh! Wits, than face about to sense, Alas!  
I know it by my self, a Wit's an Ass;  
For (like you) in my time,  
I've been Foolish in Rhyme,  
But now, so repent the Nonsensical Crime;  
I speak it in tears, which from me may seem oddly,  
Henceforth I'll grow wiser, (Dam ' Wit) I'll be Godly;  
That when by New Grace I have wiped off old stains,  
In time I may Pass, not for Count, but Sir Haynes.   

LONDON, Printed for Joseph Hindmarsh, Bookseller to His ROYAL HIGHNESS, living at the Black Bull in Cornhill. 1684.