If This Be Not a Good Play – Epilogue

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If’t be not good, the devil is in’t, they say,
The devil was in’t, this then is no good play
By that conclusion, but hereby is meant
If for so many noons and midnights spent
To reap three hours of mirth, our harvest seed
Lies still and rot, the devils in’t then indeed.
Much labour, art, and wit make up a play
As it does a ship, yet both are cast away,
When bravely they have fates curseth both these?
Sail it, or sink it, not ‘tis forth, and ne’er
The haven at which it longs t’arrive; if there
It suffers wrack, the spitefuller rocks shoot forth,
Yet none may bring it home laden with much worth.
By wonted gentle gale, sweet as the balm,
Or by extending your fair liberal palm
To fan away all storms, if you see it lowers,
The air shall ring thanks, but the glory’s yours.


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