EPILOGUE TO LUCIUS.

The Female Author who recites to Day,
 Trusts to her Sex the Merit of her Play. 
Like Father Bayes securely She sits down:
 Pitt, Box and Gallery, Gad! All's our Own. 
In antient Greece, She says, when Sappho writ,
 By their Applause the Critics show'd their Wit. 
They tun'd their Voices to her Lyric String;
 Tho' they cou'd All do something more, than Sing. 
But one Exception to this Fact we find;
 That Booby Phaon only was unkind,
 An ill-bred Boat-man, rough as Waves and Wind. 
From Sappho down thro' all succeeding Ages,
 And now on French, or on Italian Stages,
 Rough Satyrs, sly Remarks, ill-natur'd Speeches,
 Are always aim'd at Poets, that wear Breeches. 
Arm'd with Longinus, or with Rapin, No Man
 Drew a sharp Pen upon a Naked Woman. 
The blust'ring Bully in our neighb'ring Streets,
 Scorns to attack the Female that He meets:
 Fearless the Petticoat contemns his Frowns:
 The Hoop secures, whatever it surrounds. 
The many-color'd Gentry there above,
 By turns are rul'd by Tumult, and by Love:
 And while their Sweet-hearts their Attention fix,
 Suspend the Din of their damn'd clatt'ring Sticks. 
Now Sirs —
 To You our Author makes Her soft Request,
 Who speak the kindest, and who write the best. 
Your Sympathetic Hearts She hopes to move,
 From tender Friendship, and endearing Love. 
If Petrarch's Muse did Laura's Wit rehearse,
 And Cowley flatter'd dear Orinda's Verse;
 She hopes from You — Pox take her Hopes and Fears;
 I plead her Sexe's Claim: what matters Hers? 
By Our full Pow'r of Beauty We think fit,
 To damn this Salique Law impos'd on Wit:
 We'll try the Empire You so long have boasted;
 And if We are not Prais'd, We'll not be Toasted. 
Approve what One of us presents to Night;
 Or ev'ry Mortal Woman here shall write:
 Rural, Pathetic, Narrative, Sublime,
 We'll write to You, and make You write in Rhime:
 Female Remarks shall take up all Your Time. 
Your Time, poor Souls! we'll take your very Money;
 Female Third Days shall come so thick upon Ye. 
As long as We have Eyes, or Hands, or Breath,
 We'll Look, or Write, or Talk You All to Death. 
Unless Ye yield for Better and for Worse:
 Then the She-Pegasus shall gain the Course;
 And the Grey Mare will prove the better Horse.