POETS will think nothing fo checks their Fury
As Wits, Cits, Beaux, and Women for their Jury.
Our Spark's half dead to think what Medley's come,
With blended Judgments to pronounce his Doom.
'Tis all falje Fear; for in a mingled Pit,
Why, what your grave Don thinks but dully writ,
His Neighbour i'th' great Wig may take for Wit.
Some authors court the few, the wife if any;
Our youth's content, if he can reach the many,
Who go with much like ends to church and play,
Not to obferve what priests or poets fay,
No! no!
The ladies fafe may fmile, for here's no flander,
No fmut, no lew'd-tong'd beau, nor double entendre.
'Tis true, he has a spark just come from France,
But then fo far from Beau-why, he talks fenfe!
Like coin oft carry'd out, but-feldom brought from thence.
There's yet a gang to whom our Spark fubmits,
Your elbow shaking fool, that lives by's wits,
That's only witty tho', just as he lives, by fits.
Who, Lion-like, through bailiffs, fcours away,
Hunts, in the face, a dinner all the day,
At night with empty bowels grumbles o'er the play.
And now the modifh 'Prentice he implores,
Who, with his mafter's cafh, ftol'n out of doors,
Employs it on a brace of honourable whores:
While their good bulky mother pleas'd, fits by,
Bawd regent of the bubble gallery.
Next to our mounted friends, we humbly move,
Who all your fide-box tricks are much above,
And never fail to pay us with your love.
Ah friends! porr Dorfet garden houfe is gone;
Our merry meetings there are all undone :
Quite loft to us, fure for fome ftrange misdeeds,
That ftrong dog Sampfon's pull'd it o'er our heads,
Snaps rope like thread; but when his fortune's told him,
He'll hear perhaps of rope will one day hold him :
At least, I hope, that our good-natur'd town
Will find a way to pull his prices down.
Well, that's all! now, gentlemen, for the play,
On fecond thoughts, I've but two words to fay;
Such as it is for your delight defign'd,
Hear it, read, try, judge, and peak as you find.