O fay, this Comedy pleas'd long ago,
Is, not enough to make it pafs you now.
Yet, gentlemen, your ancestors had wit;
When few men cenfur'd, and when fewer writ.
And Jonfon, of those few the best, chofe this,
As the best model of his mafter-piece :
Subtle was got by our Albumazar,
That Alchymift by this Aftrologer ;
Here he was fashion'd, and we may fuppofe
He lik'd the fashion well, who wore the clothes.
But Ben made nobly his what he did mould;
What was another's lead, becomes his gold:
Like an unrighteous conqueror he reigns,
Yet rules that well, which he unjustly gains.
By this our age fuch authors does afford,
As make whole plays, and yet scarce write one word :
Who, in his anarchy of wit, rob all,
And what's their plunder, their poffeffion call:
Who, like bold padders, fcorn by night to prey,
But rob by fun-fhine, in the face of day:
Nay scarce the common ceremony use
Of, Stand, Sir, and deliver up your Mufe;
But knock the Poet down, and, with a grace,
Mount Pegafus before the owner's face.
Faith, if you have fuch country Toms abroad,
Tis time for all true men to leave that road.
Yet it were modeft, could it but be said,
They ftrip the living, but thefe rob the dead;
I An old play from which Ben Jenfon took the hint of his Alchymift.
Dare with the mummies of the Mufes play,
And make love to them the Ægyptian way;
Or, as a rhiming author would have faid,
Join the dead living to the living dead.
Such men in Poetry may claim fome part:
They have the licenfe, tho' they want the art;
And might, where theft was prais'd, for Laureats ftand,
Poets, not of the head, but of the hand.
They make the benefits of others studying,
Much like the meals of politic Jack-Pudding,
Whose difh to challenge no man has the courage; 'Tis all his own, when once he has spit i' th' porridge. But, gentlemen, you're all concern'd in this;
You are in fault for what they do amifs :
For they their thefts ftill undiscover'd think,
And durft not steal, unless you pleafe to wink.
Perhaps, you may award by your decree,
They fhould refund; but that can never be.
For fhould you letters of reprifal feal,
These men write that which no man elfe would steal.
faw our wife was chafte, yet throughly try'd And, without doubt, y' are hugely edify'd; For, like our hero, whom we fhew'd to-day, You think no woman true, but in a play. Love once did make a pretty kind of show: Efteem and kindness in one breaft would grow: But 'twas Heav'n knows how many years ago. Now fome small chat, and guinea expectation, Gets all the pretty creatures in the nation: In Comedy your little felves you meet; 'Tis Convent Garden drawn in Bridges-ftreet.
Smile on our author then, if he has fhown
A jolly nut-brown bastard of your own.
Ah! happy you, with eafe and with delight,
Who act thofe follies, Poets toil to write!
The fweating Mufe does almost leave the chace;
She puffs, and hardly keeps your Protean vices pace.
Pinch but in one vice, away you fly
To fome new frisk of contrariety.
You rowl like fnow-balls, gathering as you run,
And get feven devils, when difpoffefs'd of one.
Your Venus once was a Platonic queen;
Nothing of love befide the face was seen;
But every inch of her you now uncafe,
And clap a vizard-mask upon the face,
For fins like thefe, the zealous of the land,
With little hair, and little or no band,
Declare, how circulating peftilences
Watch, every twenty years, to snap offences.
Saturn, e'en now, takes doctoral degrees;
He'll do your work this fummer without fees.
Let all the boxes, Phoebus, find thy grace,
And, ah, preferve the eighteen-penny place!
But for the pit confounders, let 'em go,
And find as little mercy as they show:
The Actors thus, and thus thy Poets pray;
For ev'ry critic fav'd, thou damn't a play.
To the HUSBAND his own CUCKOLD.
[By Mr. JOHN DRYDEN, Jun', 1696.]
IKE fome raw fophifter that mounts the pulpit, So trembles a young Poet at a full pit. Unus'd to crowds, the Parfon quakes for fear, And wonders how the devil he durft come there; Wanting three talents needful for the place, Some beard, fome learning, and fome little grace : Nor is the puny Poet void of care;
For authors, fuch as our new authors are,
Have not much learning, nor much wit to spare:
And as for grace, to tell the truth, there's fcarce one,
But has as little as the very Parfon :
Both fay, they preach and write for your inftruction:
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.
But with the Parfon 'tis another cafe,
He, without holiness, may rife 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,
But dulnefs well becomes the fable garment;
1 warrant that ne'er spoil'd a Priest's preferment:
Wit's not his business, and as wit now goes,
Sirs, 'tis not fo much yours as you fuppofe,
For you like nothing now but naufeous beaux.
You laugh not, gallants, as by proof appears,
At what his beaufhip fays, 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,
The truth on't is, the payment of the pit
Is like for like, clipt money for clipt wit.
You cannot from our abfent author hope
He fhould equip the ftage with fuch a fop:
Fools change in England, and new fools arife,
For tho' the immortal fpecies 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.
[By BEAUMONT and FLETCHER.]
Revived for our Author's Benefit, Anno 1700.
WOW wretched is the fate of those who write!
Brought muzzled to the stage, for fear they bite. Where, like Tom Dove, they stand the common foe; Lugg'd by the critic, baited by the beau. Yet worse, their brother Poets damn the play, And roar the loudeft, tho' they never pay. The fops are proud of fcandal, for they cry, At every lewd, low character,He, who writes letters to himself, would fwear, The world forgot him, if he was not there. What should a Poet do? 'Tis hard for one To pleasure all the fools that wou'd be shown: And yet not two in ten will pass the town.
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