Whilst like a Glimering Taper still _I_ burn, And waste my self in my own flame, _Adraste_ takes the welcome rich Return: And leaves me all the hopeless Pain. XII. Be just, my lovely _Swain_, and do not take Freedoms you’ll not to me allow; Or give _Amynta_ so much Freedom back: That she may Rove as well as you. XIII. Let us then love upon the honest Square, Since Interest neither have design’d, For the sly Gamester, who ne’er plays me fair, Must Trick for Trick expect to find. _To the Honourable_ Edward Howard, _on his Comedy called The New_ Utopia. I. Beyond the Merit of the Age, You have adorn’d the Stage; So from rude Farce, to Comick Order brought, Each Action, and each Thought; To so Sublime a Method, as yet none (But Mighty _Ben_ alone) Cou’d e’er arive, and he at distance too; Were he alive he must resign to you: You have out-done what e’er he writ, In this last great Example of your Wit. Your _Solymour_ does his _Morose_ destroy, And your _Black Page_ undoes his _Barbers Boy_; All his Collegiate Ladies must retire, While we thy braver _Heroins_ do admire. This new _Utopia_ rais’d by thee, Shall stand a Structure to be wondered at, And men shall cry, this--this--is he Who that Poetick City did create: Of which _Moor_ only did the Model draw, You did Compleat that little World, and gave it Law. II. If you too great a Prospect doe allow To those whom Ignorance does at distance Seat, ‘Tis not to say, the Object is less great, But they want sight to apprehend it so: The ancient Poets in their times, When thro’ the Peopl’d Streets they sung their Rhimes, Found small applause; they sung but still were poor; Repeated Wit enough at every door. T’have made ‘em demy Gods! but ‘twou’d not do, Till Ages more refin’d esteem’d ‘em so. The Modern Poets have with like Success, Quitted the Stage, and Sallyed from the Press. Great _Johnson_ scarce a Play brought forth, But Monster-like it frighted at its Birth: Yet he continued still to write, And still his Satyr did more sharply bite. He writ tho certain of his Doom, Knowing his Pow’r in Comedy: To please a wiser Age to come: And though he Weapons wore to Justify The reasons of his Pen; he cou’d not bring, Dull Souls to Sense by Satyr, nor by Cudgelling. III.