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Spoken by Mrs. BRACEGIRDLE.
LIKE 1 some raw Sophister that mounts the Pulpit, | |
| So trembles a young Poet at a full Pit. | |
| Unus’d to Crowds, the Parson quakes for fear, | |
| And wonders how the Devil he durst come there; | |
| Wanting three Talents needful for the Place, | 5 |
| Some Beard, some Learning, and some little Grace. | |
| Nor is the Puny Poet void of Care; | |
| For Authors, such as our new Authors are, | |
| Have not much Learning, nor much Wit to spare; | |
| And as for Grace, to tell the Truth, there’s scarce one, | 10 |
| But has as little as the very Parson: | |
| Both say they Preach and Write for your Instruction; | |
| But ’tis for a Third Day, and for Induction. | |
| The difference is, that tho’ you like the Play, | |
| The Poet’s Gain is ne’er beyond his Day. | 15 |
| But with the Parson ’tis another Case, | |
| He, without Holiness, may rise to Grace; | |
| The Poet has one disadvantage more, | |
| That if his Play be dull, he’s Damn’d all o’er, | |
| Not only a damn’d Blockhead, but damn’d Poor. | 20 |
| But Dullness well becomes the Sable Garment; | |
| I warrant that ne’er spoil’d a Priest’s Preferment: | |
| Wit’s not his Business, and as Wit now goes, | |
| Sirs, ’tis not so much yours as you suppose, | |
| For you like nothing now but nauseous Beaux. | 25 |
| You laugh not, Gallants, as by proof appears, | |
| At what his Beauship says, but what he wears; | |
| So ’tis your Eyes are tickled, not your Ears. | |
| The Taylor and the Furrier find the Stuff, | |
| The Wit lies in the Dress and monstrous Muff. | 30 |
| The Truth on’t is, the Payment of the Pit | |
| Is like for like, Clipt Money for Clipt Wit. | |
| You cannot from our absent Author hope | |
| He should equip the Stage with such a Fop | |
| Fools Change in England, and new Fools arise; | 35 |
| For, tho’ th’ Immortal Species never dies, | |
| Yet ev’ry Year new Maggots make new Flies. | |
| But where he lives abroad, he scarce can find | |
| One Fool, for Million that he left behind. | |
