THE EPILOGUE.  Written by Mr. Otway to his Play called Venice Preserved, or a Plot Discovered; spoken upon his Royal Highness the Duke of York's coming to the Theatre, Friday, April 21. 1682. 
WHen too much Plenty, Luxury, and Ease,  
Had surfeited this Isle to a Disease;  
When noisome Blains did its best parts o'erspread  
And on the rest their dire Infection shed;  
Our Great Physician, who the Nature knew  
Of the Distemper, and from whence it grew,  
Fixed for Three Kingdoms quiet (Sir) on You:  
He cast his searching Eyes o'er all the Frame,  
And finding whence before one sickness came,  
How once before our Mischiefs fostered were,  
Knew well Your Virtue, and applied You there:  
Where so Your Goodness, so Your Justice swayed,  
You but appeared, and the wild Plague was stayed.  
When, from the filthy Dunghil-faction bred,  
New-formed Rebellion durst rear up its head,  
Answer me all: who struck the Monster dead?  
See, see, the injured PRINCE, and bless his Name,  
Think on the Martyr from whose Loins he came:  
Think on the Blood was shed for you before,  
And Curse the Parricides that thirst for more.  
His Foes are yours, then of their Wiles beware:  
Lay, lay him in your Hearts, and guard him there;  
Where let his Wrongs your Zeal for him Improve;  
He wears a Sword will justify your Love.  
With Blood still ready for your good t' expend,  
And has a Heart that ne'er forgot his friend.  
His Duteous Loyalty before you lay,  
And learn of him, unmurm'ring to obey.  
Think what he'as born, your Quiet to restore;  
Repent your madness and rebel no more.  
No more let Bout'feu's hope to lead Petitions,  
scriveners to be Treas'rures▪ Pedlars, Politicians;  
Nor every fool, whose Wife has trip● at Court,  
Pluck up a spirit, and turn Rebel for't.  
In Lands where Cuckolds multiply like ours,  
What Prince can be too Jealous of their powers,  
Or can too often think himself alarmed?  
They're male contents that every where go armed:  
And when the horned Herd's together got,  
Nothing portends a Commonwealth like that.  
Cast, cast your Idols off, your Gods of wood,  
Ere yet Philistines fatten with your blood:  
Renounce your Priests of Baal with Amen-faces,  
Your Wapping Feasts, and your Mile-End High-places  
Nail all your Medals on the Gallows Post,  
In recompense th' Original was lost:  
At these, illustrious Repentance pay,  
In his kind hands your humble Offerings lay:  
Let Royal Pardon be by him implored,  
Th' Atoning Brother of your Angered Lord:  
He only brings a Medicine fit to assuage  
A people's folly, and roused Monarch's rage;  
An Infant Prince yet labouring in the womb,  
Fated with wondrous happiness to come,  
He goes to fetch the mighty blessing home:  
Send all your wishes with him, let the Air  
With gentle breezes waft it safely here,  
The Seas, like what they'll carry, calm and fair:  
Let the Illustrious Mother touch our Land  
Mildly, as hereafter may her Son Command;  
While our glad Monarch welcomes her to shore,  
With kind assurance; she shall part no more.  
Be the Majestic Babe then smiling born,  
And all good signs of Fate his Birth adorn,  
So live and grow, a constant pledge to stand  
Of CAESAR'S Love to an obedient Land.   

Printed for Joseph Hindmarsh at the Black Bull in Cornhill, 1682.