| |
| IF 1 yet there be a few that take delight | |
| In that which reasonable Men should write, | |
| To them Alone we Dedicate this Night. | |
| The Rest may satisfie their curious Itch | |
| With City Gazets, or some Factious Speech, | 5 |
| Or what-ere Libel, for the Publick Good, | |
| Stirs up the Shrove-tide Crew to Fire and Blood. | |
| Remove your Benches, you apostate Pit, | |
| And take Above, twelve penny-worth of Wit: | |
| Go back to your dear Dancing on the Rope, | 10 |
| Or see what’s worse, the Devil and the Pope! | |
| The Plays that take on our Corrupted Stage, | |
| Methinks, resemble the distracted Age; | |
| Noise, Madness, all unreasonable Things, | |
| That strike at Sense, as Rebels do at Kings! | 15 |
| The stile of Forty One our Poets write, | |
| And you are grown to judge like Forty Eight. | |
| Such Censures our mistaking Audience make, | |
| That ’tis almost grown scandalous to take. | |
| They talk of Feavours that infect the Brains; | 20 |
| But Non-sence is the new Disease that reigns. | |
| Weak Stomachs, with a long Disease opprest, | |
| Cannot the Cordials of strong Wit digest; | |
| Therefore thin Nourishment of Farce ye choose, | |
| Decoctions of a Barly-water Muse: | 25 |
| A Meal of Tragedy wou’d make ye Sick, | |
| Unless it were a very tender Chick. | |
| Some Scenes in Sippets would be worth our time: | |
| Those wou’d go down; some Love that’s poach’d in Rime; | |
| If these shou’d fail—— | 30 |
| We must lie down, and, after all our cost, | |
| Keep Holy-day, like Water-men in Frost; | |
| Whilst you turn Players on the Worlds great Stage, | |
| And Act your selves the Farce of your own Age. | |
