And when with much adoe you get him there,

Where he in all his Glory should appear, Your Poets make him such rare Things to say,

That he's more Wit than any Man ith' Play: But of so ill a mingle with the rest, 31 As when a Parrat's taught to break a Jest. Thus, aiming to be fine, they make a Show, As tawdry Squires in country Churches do. Things well consider'd, 'tis so hard to make

A Comedy, which should the knowing take,

That our dull Poet, in despair to please,
Does humbly beg by me his writ of ease.

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.
But this our Age such Authors does afford,
As make whole Plays, and yet scarce write
one word;

Who, in this Anarchy of Wit, rob all,
And what's their Plunder, their Possession

call:

Who, like bold Padders, scorn by Night to prey,

But rob by Sun-shine, in the Face of Day: 20
Nay scarce the common Ceremony use
Of Stand, Sir, and deliver up your Muse;
But knock the Poet down, and, with a Grace,
Mount Pegasus before the Owner's Face.
Faith,if you have such Country Toms abroad,
'Tis time for all true Men to leave that Road.
Yet it were modest, could it but be said,
They strip the Living, but these rob the
Dead;

Dare with the Mummies of the Muses play,
And make Love to them the Egyptian

Or, as a Rhiming Author would have said, Join the Dead Living to the Living Dead. Such Men in Poetry may claim some l'art; They have the Licence, tho' they want the Art;

And_might, where Theft was prais'd, for Laureats stand,

Poets, not of the Head, but of the Hand. They make the Benefits of others' studying, Much like the Meals of Politick Jack-Pudding, Whose dish to challenge no Man has the Courage;

'Tis all his own, when once h' has spit i' the Porridge.

40

But, Gentlemen, you're all concern'd in this; You are in Fault for what they do amiss : For they their Thefts still undiscovered think,

And durst not steal, unless you please to wink.

P'erhaps, you may award by your Decree, They shou'd refund,-but that can never be ; For should you Letters of Reprisal seal, These Men write that which no Man else would steal.

PROLOGUE.

WHEN first our Poet set himself to write, Like a young Bridegroom on his Wedding night,

He laid about him, and did so bestir him,
His Muse could never lye in quiet for him :
But now his Honey-moon is gone and past,
Yet the ungrateful drudgery must last,
And he is bound, as civil Husbands do,
To strain himself, in complaisance to you:
To write in pain, and counterfeit a Bliss,
Like the faint smackings of an after-Kiss. 10
But you, like Wives ill pleas'd, supply his
want;

Each Writing Monsieur is a fresh gallant:

39 Whose Broth to claim there's no one has the Courage 1672.

40 when once] after 1672. 45-46 omitted 1672.

AN EVENING'S LOVE, 1668.

10 smackings] Edd. give smacking

Such as at first came on with Pomp and Glory,

But, over-straining, soon fell flat before ye. Their useless weight with patience long was borne,

But at the last you threw 'em off with scorn. As for the Poet of this present night, Though now he claims in you an Husbands right,

30

He will not hinder you of fresh delight.
He, like a Seaman, seldom will appear,
And means to trouble home but thrice a year;
That only time from your Gallants he'll
borrow;

Be kind to day, and Cuckold him to morrow.
EPILOGUE.

My Part being small, I have had time to day
To mark your various censures of our Play.
First, looking for a Judgement or a Wit,
Like Jews, I saw 'em scatter'd through the
Pit;

And where a lot of Smilers lent an Ear
To one that talk'd, I knew the Foe was there.
The Club of jests went round; he, who had

Of taking 'em, the Bill so high wou'd mount, That, like Prize-Goods, which through the Office come,

He should have had 'em much more cheap at home.

He still must write, and, Banquier-like, cach Day

Accept new Bills, and he must break, or pay. When through his hands such sums must yearly run,

You cannot think the Stock is all his own.
His haste his other errors might excuse,
But there's no mercy for a guilty Muse;
For, like a Mistress, she must stand or fall, 40
And please you to a height, or not at all.

PROLOGUE.

SELF-LOVE (which never rightly understood) Makes Poets still conclude their Plays are good,

And Malice in all Criticks raigns so high, That for small Errors, they whole Plays decry;

TYRANNICK LOVE, 1669. The editors make nonsense by printing the first line thus:

Self-love, which, never rightly understood,

So that to see this fondness, and that spite, You'd think that none but Mad-men judge or write.

Therefore our Poet, as he thinks not fit T'impose upon you what he writes for Wit So hopes that, leaving you your censures free,

You equal Judges of the whole will be: 10 Poets, like Lovers, should be bold and dare, They judge but half, who only faults will see. They spoil their business with an over-care;