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 ftudying,
Much like the meals of politic Jack-Pudding,
Whofe 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 undifcover'd think,
And durft not steal, unless you please to wink.
Perhaps, you may award by your decree,
They fhould refund; but that can never be.
For fhould you letters of reprifal feal,
Thefe men write that which no man elfe would steal.
YOU 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 Heaven 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 Covent Garden drawn in Bridges-ftreet.
Smile on our author then, if he has shown
A jolly nut-brown bastard of your own.
Ah! happy you, with ease and with delight,
Who act those 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 roll like fnow-balls, gathering as you run ;.
And get seven devils, when difpoffefs'd of one..
Your Venus once was a Platonic queen;
Nothing of love befide the face was feen;
But every inch of her you now uncase,
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 fnap offences..
Saturn, ev'n 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 them go,
And find as little mercy as they show :
The Actors thus, and thus thy Poets pray;
For every critic fav'd, thou damn'st a play..
PROLOGUE to the HUSBAND his own CUCKOLD.
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 instruction:
But 'tis for a third day, and for induction.
The difference is, that though 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 rise 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;
I 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 suppose,
For
you like nothing now but nauseous 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 drefs, and monftrous 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 though th' immortal fpecies. never dies,
Yet every year new maggots make new flies.
But where he lives abroad, he scarce can find
One fool, for millions that he left behind..
PROLOGUE to the PILGRIM.
Revived for our Author's Benefit, Anno 1700.
OW wretched is the fate of thofe 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, though they never pay.. The fops are proud of scandal, for they cry, At every lewd, low character,-That's I. He, who writes letters to himself, would swear, The world forgot him, if he was not there.
What should a Poet do? 'Tis hard for one
To pleasure all the fools that would be shown:
And yet not two in ten will pass the town.
Moft coxcombs are not of the laughing kind;
More goes to make a fop, than fops can find.
Quack Maurus, though he never took degrees
In either of our universities;
Yet to be fhown by fome kind wit he looks,
Because he play'd the fool and writ three books.
But, if he would be worth a Poet's pen,
He must be more a fool, and write again :
For all the former fuftian ftuff he wrote,
Was dead-born doggrel, or is quite forgot
His man of Uz, ftript of his Hebrew robe,
Is just the proverb, and As poor as Job.
One would have thought he could no longer jog;
But Arthur was a level, Job's a bog.
There, though he crept, yet ftill he kept in fight;
But here, he founders in, and finks downright.
Had he prepar'd us, and been dull by rule,
Tobit had first been turn'd to ridicule :
But our bold Briton, without fear or awe,
O'er-leaps at once the whole Apocrypha ;
Invades the Pfalms with rhymes, and leaves no room
For any Vandal Hopkins yet to come.
But when, if, after all, this godly geer
Is not fo fenfelefs as it would appear;
Our mountebank has laid a deeper train,
His cant, like Merry Andrew's noble vein,
Cat-calls the fects to draw them in again.
|