Thofe Afkaparts, men big enough to throw
Charing Cross for a bar, men that do know
No token of worth, but Queens man, and fine
Living; barrels of beef, flaggons of wine.
I shook like a spied Spie-Preachers which are
Seas of Wit and Arts, you can, then dare,
Drown the fins of this place, but as for me
Which am but a fcant book, enough shall be
To wash the stains away: Although I yet
(With Maccabees modefty) the known merit
Of my work leffen, yet fome wife men fhall,
I hope, esteem my Writs Canonical,

NOTE.

A Giant famous in Romances. P.

Each man an Afkapart, of ftrength to tofs

For Quoits, both Temple-bar and Charing-cross.
Scar'd at the grizly forms, I fweat, I fly,

And shake all o'er, like a discovered spy.

279

Courts are too much for wits fo weak as mine:

Charge them with Heaven's Artillery, bold Divine!
From fuch alone the Great rebukes endure,
Whofe Satire's facred, and whose rage fecure:

'Tis mine to wash a few light stains, but theirs
To deluge fin, and drown a Court in tears.
Howe'er what's now Apocrypha, my Wit,
In time to come, may pafs for holy writ.

285

1

EPILOGUE

TO THE

SATIRES,

In Two DIALOGUES.

Written in MDCCXXXVIII.

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