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Warn. For that matter, never trouble yourself; I can love as fast as any man, when I am nigh pos session; my love falls heavy, and never moves quick till it comes near the centre; he's an ill falconer, that will unhood before the quarry be in sight.

Love's an high-mettled hawk that beats the air, But soon grows weary when the game's not near. [Exeunt omnes.

EPILOGUE.

As country vicars, when the sermon's done,
Run headlong to the benediction;、

Well knowing, though the better sort may stay,
The vulgar rout will run unblest away:

So we, when once our play is done, make haste
With a short epilogue to close your taste.
In thus withdrawing, we seem mannerly;
But, when the curtain's down, we peep, and see
A jury of the wits, who still stay late,

And in their club decree the poor play's fate;
Their verdict back is to the boxes brought,
Thence all the town pronounces it their thought
Thus, gallants, we, like Lilly, can foresee;
But if

you ask us what our doom will be,
We by to-morrow will our fortune cast,
As he tells all things when the year is past.

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