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.