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His cause ne'er fails ; for whatsoe'er he spends,
There's still God's plenty for himself and friends.
Should men be rated by poetic rules,
Lord ! what a poll would there be rais'd from fools!
Mean time poor wit prohibited must lie,
As if 'twere made some French commodity.
Fools you will have, and rais’d at vast expence ;
And yet, as soon as seen, they give offence.
Timewas, when none wouldcry, That oaf was me;
But now you strive about your pedigree.
Bauble and cap no sooner are thrown down,
But there's a mufs of more than half the town.
Each one will challenge a child's part at least;
A sign the family is well increast.
Of foreign cattle there's no longer need,
When we're supply'd so fast with English breed.
Well! flourish, countrymen, drink, swear, and roar;
Let ev'ry free-born subject keep his whore,
And wand'ring in the wilderness about,
At end of forty years not wear her out.
But when you see these pictures, let none dare
To own beyond a limb or single share:
For where the punk is common, he's a lot,
Who needs will father what the parish got.
H’unhappy man, who once has trail'd a pen,
Lives not to please himself, but other men; Is always drudging, wastes his life and blood, Yet only eats and drinks what
you What praise soe'er the poetry deserve, Yet ev'ry fool can bid the poet
starve. That fumbling letcher to revenge is bent, Because he thinks himself or whore is meant: Name but a cuckold, all the city swarms From Leadenhall to Ludgate is in arms: Were there no fear of Antichrist or France, In the blest time poor poets live by chance. Either
come not here, or, as you grace Some old acquaintance, drop into the place, Careless and qualmish with a yawning face : You sleep o'er wit, and by my troth
News is your food, and you enough provide,
Both for yourselves, and all the world beside.
One theatre there is of vast resort,
Which whilome of Requests was called the Court;
But now the great Exchange of News 'tis hight,
And full of hum and buz from noon 'till night.
Up stairs and down you run, as for a race,
And each man wears three nations in his face.
So big you look, tho claret you retrench,
That, arm'd with bottled ale, you huff the French.
But all your entertainment still is fed
By villains in your own dull island bred.
Would you return to us, we dare engage
You know no poison but plain ratsbane here;
Death's more refin'd, and better bred elsewhere.
They have a civil way in Italy
By smelling a perfume to make you
A trick would make you lay your snuff-box by.
Murder’s a trade, so known and practis'd there,
That 'tis infallible as is the chair.
But, mark their feast, you shall behold such pranks;
The pope saysgrace, but 'tis the devil gives thanks.
HESPIS, the first professor of our art,
At country wakes, sung ballads from a cart. Το prove
this true, if Latin be no trespass, Dicitur & plaustris vexisse Poemata Thespis. But Æschylus, says Horace in some
Was the first mountebank that trod the stage :
Yet Athens never knew your learned sport
Of tossing poets in a tennis-court.
But 'tis the talent of our English nation,
Still to be plotting some new reformation:
And few years hence, if anarchy goes on,
Jack Presbyter shall here erect his throne,
Knock out a tub with preaching once a day,
And ev'ry prayer be longer than a play.
Then all your heathen wits Mall go to pot,
For disbelieving of a Popish-plot:
shall be us'd like infidels,
And worst the author of the Oxford bells:
Nor should we 'scape the sentence, to depart,
E'en in our first original, a cart.
No zealous brother there would want a stone,
To maul us cardinals, and pelt pope Joan :
Religion, learning, wit, would be supprest,
Rags of the whore, and trappings of the beast:
Scot, Suarez, Tom of Aquin, must go down,
As chief supporters of the triple crown;
And Aristotle's for destruction ripe ;
Some fay, he call'd the soul an organ-pipe,
Which, by some little help of derivation,
Shall then be prov'd a pipe of inspiration.
F 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 fatisfy their curious itch With city-gazettes, or some factious speech, Or whate'er libe!, for the public good, Stirs
the throve-tide crew to fire and blood. Remove your benches, you apostate pit, And take, above, twelve pennyworth of wit ; Go back to your dcar dancing on the
rope, Or fee what's worse, the devil and the