Too great, alas! for poets' slender gains.
For wit, like china, should long buried lie,
Before it ripens to good comedy;
A thing we ne'er have seen since Jonson's days,
And but a few of his were perfect plays.
Now drudges of the stage must oft appear,
They must be bound to scribble twice a year.
That these insinuations might not be mistaken, Shadwell, in the epilogue, severely attacks rhyming tragedies in general; the object of which diatribe, considering the late success of "Aureng-Zebe," could not possibly be misinterpreted:
But of those ladies he despairs to-day,
Who love a dull romantic whining play;