I would now ask ye how you like the play,
But, as it is with schoolboys, cannot say.
I am cruel fearful! Pray yet, stay a while,
And let me look upon ye. No man smile?
Then it goes hard, I see. He that has
Loved a young handsome wench, then, show his face—
’Tis strange if none be here—and, if he will,
Against his conscience let him hiss, and kill
Our market. ’Tis in vain, I see, to stay ye.
Have at the worst can come, then! Now what say ye?
And yet mistake me not: I am not bold;
We have no such cause. If the tale we have told
For ’tis no other—any way content ye—
For to that honest purpose it was meant ye—
We have our end; and you shall have ere long,
I dare say, many a better, to prolong
Your old loves to us. We, and all our might,
Rest at your service. Gentlemen, good night.
I would now ask you how you liked the play, but, like schoolboys, I cannot say. I am terribly nervous! Please, wait a moment and let me look at you. Does no man smile? Then things are going badly, I see. He who has loved a young beautiful woman, show your face then—it would be strange if no one is here—and if you are willing, even against your conscience, let him hiss and ruin our business. It is in vain, I see, to keep you here. Let me face the worst that can come, then! Now what do you say? And yet do not misunderstand me: I am not bold; we have no such reason to be. If the story we have told—for it is nothing else—pleases you in any way—for to that honest purpose it was meant for you—we have achieved our goal; and you shall have, soon enough, I dare say, many a better play, to continue your love for us. We, and all our strength, remain at your service. Gentlemen, good night.
I'd ask you how you liked the play, but I can't speak like schoolboys do. I'm super nervous! Please, just wait a minute and let me look at you all. Nobody smiled? Oh no, that's bad. If anyone here has loved a beautiful young woman, show your face—it would be weird if nobody has—and if you want to, go ahead and hiss if you're bothered and ruin us. It's pointless to keep you here, I see. Okay, let's hear the worst! What do you think? But don't get me wrong: I'm not being confident; we don't have reason to be. If the story we told you—and that's all it is—pleased you in any way—because that's what we meant it to do—then we're happy; and soon, I promise you, you'll see many better plays to keep loving us. We're here for you, all of us. Gentlemen, good night.
id ask how u liked the play but im nervous anyyone smile? no smiles = bad hope u liked the story many better plays coming thanks 4 ur support good night
Epilogues in Elizabethan and Jacobean drama often ask for applause — it was a convention, a known formula. But this one, placed after a play about desire and its costs, has an odd resonance. The speaker appeals to men who have 'loved a young handsome wench' — asking them not to hiss out of sentiment for the play's romantic theme. After a play in which the love of a beautiful young woman cost Arcite his life, cost Palamon his best friend, and cost the Jailer's Daughter her mind, the epilogue asks the audience to be tender because love is nice. It's either a sharp irony (the play just showed you what love costs, and now we're asking you to be sentimental about it) or a completely innocent piece of theatrical convention. Either way, it's a striking way to step back from what just happened.
The epilogue's central image — 'as it is with schoolboys, cannot say' — positions the speaker as someone too anxious about the reception to ask the question directly. This was a conventional piece of self-deprecating theater, but it functions interestingly as a coda to a play about uncertainty. Palamon couldn't say which god would answer him. Emilia couldn't say which man she preferred. Arcite couldn't say whether his horse would hold. And now the speaker can't say whether the play worked. The play ends in the same state it ran through: someone who wants something, afraid to ask whether they'll get it.
FINIS
The End
The End
the end
The Reckoning
After the weight of 5-4 — Arcite's death, Palamon's paradox, Theseus's bewildered closing — the epilogue arrives like a performer stepping outside the fourth wall to exhale. It's brief, charming, self-deprecating, and ends with a direct appeal to male sentiment: if you've ever loved a beautiful woman, don't hiss. It works by deflating everything that came before — not undermining it, but releasing the audience from the grip of tragedy into the normal world. The play is over. Did you like it? We're not sure you did.
If this happened today…
A director steps out after the curtain call, microphone in hand, visibly nervous. 'I'd ask you how you liked the film, but — like a student after an exam — I find I can't. Look: if anyone in this room has ever loved a beautiful woman, please don't walk out talking it down. We meant well. We'll make more. Goodnight.'