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PROLOGUE. WHAT 1 Flocks of Critiques hover here to-day, | |
As Vultures wait on Armies for their Prey, | |
All gaping for the Carcase of a Play! | |
With croaking Notes they bode some dire event, | |
And follow dying Poets by the scent. | 5 |
Ours gives himself for gone; y have watchd your Time; | |
He fights this day unarmd, without his Rhyme, | |
And brings a Tale which often has been told, | |
As sad as Didos, and almost as old. | |
His Heroe, whom you Wits his Bully call, | 10 |
Bates of his Mettle, and scarce rants at all; | |
Hes somewhat lewd, but a well-meaning mind, | |
Weeps much, fights little, but is wondrous kind; | |
In short, a Pattern and Companion fit | |
For all the keeping Tonyes of the Pit. | 15 |
I coud name more: A Wife, and Mistress too, | |
Both (to be plain) too good for most of you; | |
The Wife well-naturd, and the Mistress true. | |
Now, Poets, if your fame has been his Care, | |
Allow him all the Candour you can spare. | 20 |
A brave Man scorns to quarrel once a day, | |
Like Hectors in at evry petty fray. | |
Let those find fault whose Wits so very small, | |
Theyve need to show that they can think at all. | |
Errors, like Straws, upon the surface flow; | 25 |
He who would search for Pearls must dive below. | |
Fops may have leave to level all they can, | |
As Pigmies woud be glad to lop a Man. | |
Half-wits are Fleas, so little and so light, | |
We scarce coud know they live, but that they bite. | 30 |
But, as the rich, when tird with daily Feasts, | |
For Change become their next poor Tenants Ghests; | |
Drink hearty Draughts of Ale from plain brown Bowls, | |
And snatch the homely Rasher from the Coals: | |
So you, retiring from much better Cheer, | 35 |
For once may venture to do penance here. | |
And since that plenteous Autumn now is past, | |
Whose Grapes and Peaches have indulgd your Taste, | |
Take in good Part from our poor Poets boord | |
Such rivelld Fruits as Winter can afford. | 40 |
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EPILOGUE Poets, like Disputants, when Reasons fail, | |
Have one sure Refuge left, and thats to rail. | |
Fop, Coxcomb, Fool, are thunderd through the Pit, | |
And this is all their Equipage of Wit. | |
We wonder how the Devil this diffrence grows, | 45 |
Betwixt our Fools in Verse, and yours in Prose: | |
For, Faith, the Quarrel rightly understood, | |
Tis Civil War with their own Flesh and Blood. | |
The thread bare Author hates the gawdy Coat, | |
And swears at the Guilt Coach, but swears afoot: | 50 |
For tis observd of evry Scribling Man, | |
He grows a Fop as fast as eer he can; | |
Prunes up, and asks his Oracle the Glass, | |
If Pink or Purple best become his Face. | |
For our poor Wretch, he neither rails nor prays, | 55 |
Nor likes your Wit just as you like his Plays; | |
He has not yet so much of Mr. Bays. | |
He does his best; and if he cannot please, | |
Woud quietly sue out his Writ of Ease. | |
Yet, if he might his own grand Jury call, | 60 |
By the Fair Sex he begs to stand or fall. | |
Let Cæsars Powr the Mens Ambition move, | |
But grace you him, who lost the World for Love! | |
Yet if some antiquated Lady say, | |
The last Age is not copyd in his Play; | 65 |
Heavn help the man who for that face must drudge, | |
Which only has the wrinkles of a Judge. | |
Let not the Young and Beauteous join with those; | |
For shoud you raise such numerous Hosts of Foes, | |
Young Wits and Sparks he to his aid must call; | 70 |
Tis more than one Mans work to please you all. | |