| |
| WERE 1 you but half so wise as you’re severe, | |
| Our youthfull Poet shou’d not need to fear; | |
| To his green years your Censures you would suit, | |
| Not blast the Blossom, but expect the Fruit. | |
| The Sex that best does pleasure understand | 5 |
| Will alwayes chuse to err on t’ other hand. | |
| They check not him that’s aukard in delight, | |
| But clap the young Rogues Cheek, and set him right. | |
| Thus heartn’d well, and flesh’t upon his Prey, | |
| The youth may prove a man another day. | 10 |
| Your Ben and Fletcher, in their first young flight, | |
| Did no Volpone, no 2 Arbaces write; | |
| But hopp’d about, and short Excursions made | |
| From Bough to Bough, as if they were afraid, | |
| And each were 3 guilty of some Slighted Maid. | 15 |
| Shakespear’s own Muse her Pericles first bore; | |
| The Prince of Tyre was elder than the Moore. | |
| ’Tis miracle to see a first good Play; | |
| All Hawthorns do not bloom on Christmas-day. | |
| A slender Poet must have time to grow, | 20 |
| And spread and burnish as his Brothers do. | |
| Who still looks lean, sure with some pox is curst, | |
| But no Man can be Falstaff-fat at first, | |
| Then damn not, but indulge his stew’d 4 Essays, | |
| Encourage him, and bloat him up with Praise, | 25 |
| That he may get more bulk before he dies, | |
| He’s not yet fed enough for Sacrifice. | |
| Perhaps, if now your Grace you will not grudge, | |
| He may grow up to write, and you to judge. | |
