_I must Confess, it seems unnatural, that one who pretends to the Title of a Poet, should endeavour, as I have done, to disparage his own Profession. However, the Poets of this Age, whom it most concerns, I hope will not take it unkindly of me, since doing thus, I only follow the Example they have given me; for in that short time of my Residence in_ London, _among all the Poets I was in Company with, I heard little else besides their Complaints, and unmerciful damnings both of the Times and one another. Neither have I seen a Modern Play but either began or ended in the same Tune. Some few of which I have, for Example-sake, here presumed to quote._ In the Prologue to _Aurenzebe_. _The Clergy thrives, and the Litigious Bar,_ _Dull Heroes fatten by the Spoils of War._ _All Southern Vices (Heav'n be prais'd) are here,_ _But Wit's a Luxury you count too dear._ In the Epilogue to the _Libertine_. _S Death! What a Devil would you have us do?_} _Each take a Prison, and there humbly sue,_ } _Angling for single Money in a Shoe?_ } In the Epilogue to _Monsieur Rogooe_. _I Am a Poet, and I'll prove it plain,_ _Both by my empty Purse, and empty Brain._ _I've other Reasons to confirm it too;_ _I've great, and self-conceits of all I do._ _As for my Play, I Pawn'd it to some Cit,_ _At least six Months before my Play was writ._ _But when the third day comes, away I run,_ _Knowing that then in sholes come all my Duns._ _If these things make me not a proper Poet,_ _He that has better Title, let him shew it._ In the Prologue to _Theodosius_; Or the Force of Love. _On Poets only no kind Star e're smil'd,_ _Curst Fate has damn'd 'em every Mothers Child._ _Therefore he warns his Brothers of the Stage_ _To write no more to an ingrateful Age._ _Think what penurious Masters you have serv'd;_ Tasso _ran mad, and Noble_ Spencer _starv'd_. _Turn then, who e're thou art, that canst Write well,_ _Thy ink to Gall, and in Lampoons excell._ _Forswear all Honesty, traduce the Great,_ _Grow Impudent, and rail against the State;_ _Bursting with Spleen, abroad thy Pasquils send,_ _And choose some Libel-spreader for thy Friend._ _The Wit and Want of_ Timon _point thy Mind,_ _And for thy Satyr-subject chuse Mankind._ In the Prologue to the Unhappy Favourite; or the Earl of _Essex_. _The Merchant, joyful with th' hopes of Gain,_ _Ventures his Life and Fortunes on the Main;_ _But the poor Poet oft'ner does expose_ _More than his Life, his Credit, for Applause._ In the Epilogue to the same Play.