Whose glories growing till his latest breath,
Excelled all others, and his own in death. [Exeunt.
EPILOGUE,
SPOKEN BY MRS BRACEGIRDLE.
This day, the Poet, bloodily inclined,
Has made me die, full sore against my mind!
Some of you naughty men, I fear, will cry,
Poor rogue! would I might teach thee how to die!