Epilogue To "Mithridates, King Of Pontus;" By Nathan Lee, 1678.

You've seen a pair of faithful lovers die:         And much you care; for most of you will cry,         'Twas a just judgment on their constancy.         For, heaven be thank'd, we live in such an age,         When no man dies for love, but on the stage:         And even those martyrs are but rare in plays;         A cursed sign how much true faith decays.         Love is no more a violent desire;         'Tis a mere metaphor, a painted fire.         In all our sex, the name examined well,         Tis pride to gain, and vanity to tell.         In woman, 'tis of subtle interest made:         Curse on the punk that made it first a trade!         She first did wit's prerogative remove,         And made a fool presume to prate of love.         Let honour and preferment go for gold;         But glorious beauty is not to be sold:         Or, if it be, 'tis at a rate so high,         That nothing but adoring it should buy.         Yet the rich cullies may their boasting spare;         They purchase but sophisticated ware.         'Tis prodigality that buys deceit,         Where both the giver and the taker cheat.         Men but refine on the old half-crown way;         And women fight, like Swissers, for their pay.