Now to the Drama let us bend our eyes, Where fettered by whig Walpole low she lies; [32] Corruption foiled her, for she feared her glance; Decorum left her for an Opera dance! Yet Chesterfield, [33] whose polished pen inveighs 'Gainst laughter, fought for freedom to our Plays; Unchecked by Megrims of patrician brains, And damning Dulness of Lord Chamberlains. Repeal that act! again let Humour roam Wild o'er the stage--we've time for tears at home; 360 Let Archer [34] plant the horns on Sullen's brows, And Estifania gull her "Copper" [35] spouse; The moral's scant--but that may be excused, Men go not to be lectured, but amused. He whom our plays dispose to Good or Ill Must wear a head in want of Willis' skill; [36] Aye, but Macheath's example--psha!--no more! It formed no thieves--the thief was formed before; [37] And spite of puritans and Collier's curse, [lvi] Plays make mankind no better, and no worse. [38] 370 Then spare our stage, ye methodistic men! Nor burn damned Drury if it rise again. [39] But why to brain-scorched bigots thus appeal? Can heavenly Mercy dwell with earthly Zeal? For times of fire and faggot let them hope! Times dear alike to puritan or Pope. As pious Calvin saw Servetus blaze, So would new sects on newer victims gaze. E'en now the songs of Solyma begin; Faith cants, perplexed apologist of Sin! 380 While the Lord's servant chastens whom he loves, And Simeon kicks, [40] where Baxter only "shoves."[41] Whom Nature guides, so writes, that every dunce [lvii], Enraptured, thinks to do the same at once; But after inky thumbs and bitten nails [lviii], And twenty scattered quires, the coxcomb fails. Let Pastoral be dumb; for who can hope To match the youthful eclogues of our Pope? Yet his and Philips' [42] faults, of different kind, For Art too rude, for Nature too refined, [lix] 390 Instruct how hard the medium 'tis to hit 'Twixt too much polish and too coarse a wit. A vulgar scribbler, certes, stands disgraced In this nice age, when all aspire to taste; The dirty language, and the noisome jest, Which pleased in Swift of yore, we now detest; Proscribed not only in the world polite [lx], But even too nasty for a City Knight!