Poets, like disputants, when reasons fail, Have one sure refuge left--and that's to rail. Fop, coxcomb, fool, are thunder'd through the pit; And this is all their equipage of wit. We wonder how the devil this difference grows, Betwixt our fools in verse, and yours in prose: For, 'faith, the quarrel rightly understood, 'Tis civil war with their own flesh and blood. The threadbare author hates the gaudy coat; And swears at the gilt coach, but swears afoot: 10 For 'tis observed of every scribbling man, He grows a fop as fast as e'er he can; Prunes up, and asks his oracle, the glass, If pink and purple best become his face. For our poor wretch, he neither rails nor prays; Nor likes your wit, just as you like his plays; He has not yet so much of Mr Bayes. He does his best; and if he cannot please, Would quietly sue out his writ of ease. Yet, if he might his own grand jury call, 20 By the fair sex he begs to stand or fall. Let Cæsar's power the men's ambition move, But grace you him who lost the world for love! Yet if some antiquated lady say, The last age is not copied in his play; Heaven help the man who for that face must drudge, Which only has the wrinkles of a judge. Let not the young and beauteous join with those; For should you raise such numerous hosts of foes, Young wits and sparks he to his aid must call; 30 'Tis more than one man's work to please you all. * * * * * XX. PROLOGUE TO "LIMBERHAM." True wit has seen its best days long ago; It ne'er look'd up, since we were dipp'd in show: When sense in doggerel rhymes and clouds was lost, And dulness flourish'd at the actors' cost. Nor stopp'd it here; when tragedy was done, Satire and humour the same fate have run, And comedy is sunk to trick and pun. Now our machining lumber will not sell, And you no longer care for heaven or hell; What stuff can please you next, the Lord can tell. 10 Let them, who the rebellion first began To wit restore the monarch, if they can; Our author dares not be the first bold man. He, like the prudent citizen, takes care To keep for better marts his staple ware; His toys are good enough for Sturbridge fair. Tricks were the fashion; if it now be spent, 'Tis time enough at Easter to invent; No man will make up a new suit for Lent. If now and then he takes a small pretence, 20 To forage for a little wit and sense, Pray pardon him, he meant you no offence. Next summer, Nostradamus tells, they say, That all the critics shall be shipp'd away, And not enow be left to damn a play. To every sail beside, good heaven, be kind: But drive away that swarm with such a wind, That not one locust may be left behind! * * * * * XXI. EPILOGUE TO "MITHRIDATES, KING OF PONTUS;"