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UTHORS are judg’d by strange capricious

Rules ; The great ones are thought mad, the small ones Fools : Yet sure the best are most severely fated, For Fools are only laugh'd at, Wits are hated. Blockheads with Reason Men of Sense abhor ;

А But Fool 'y init Fool, is barb'rous Civil War.

1 Why on all Authors then shou'd Criticks fall ? Since some have writ, and shewn no Wit at all. Condemn a Play of theirs, and they evade it, Cry, “ Damn not us, but damn the French who

" made it.
By running Goods, these graceless Owlers gain;
Theirs are the Rules of France, the Plats of Spain :
But Wit like Wine, from happier Climates brought,
Dash'd by thesë · Rogues, turns English common

They pall Moliere's and Lopez' sprightly Strain,
And teach dull Harlequins to grin in vain.

How shall our Author hope a gentler Fate,
Who dares most impudently not translate.
It had been civil in these ticklish Times,
To fetch his Fools and Knaves from foreign Climes,


104 Prologue to the Three Hours, &c.
Spaniards and Frencb abuse to the World's End,
But spare old England, least you hurt a Friend.

Fool is by our Satire bit,
Let him hiss loud, to fhew you all, he's hit.
Poets make Characters, as Salesmen Clothes,
We take no Measure of your Fops and Beaus,
But here all Sizes and all Shapes you meet,
And fit your selves, like Chaps in Monmouth-Street.

GALLANTS I look here, this "Fools-Cap has an Air, Goodly and smart, with Ears of Isachar. Let no one Fool engrofs it, or confine, A common Blesling! now 'tis yours, now mine, But Poets in all Ages had the Care To keep this Cap, for such as will, to wear. Our Author has it now, (for every Wit Of Course rösign'd it to the next that writ ;) And thus upon the Stage 'tis fairly # thrown; Let him that takes it, wear it as his own.

* Shews a Cap with Ears.
+ Flings down the Cap, and Exit.


*S AND Ys's GHOST: Or a proper

new Ballad on the nero Ovid's Metamorphosis: As it was intended to be translated by Persons of Quslity.

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E Lords and Commons, Men of Wit,

And Pleasure about Town ;
Read this e're you translate one Bit

Of Books of high Renown.

Beware of Latin Authors all!

Nor think your Verses Sterling,
Tho' with a Golden Pen you scrawl,

And scribble in a Berlin:

For not the Desk with silver Nails,

Nor Bureau of Expence,
Nor Standish well japan'd, avails

To writing of good Sense.

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Hear how a Ghost in dead of Night,

With saucer Eyes of Fire,
In woful wise did fore affright

A Wit and courtly Squire.



Rare Imp of Pbæbus, hopeful Youth!

Like Puppy tame that uses
To fetch and carry, in his Mouth,

The Works of all the Muses.

Ah! why did he write Poetry,

- That hereto was so civil ; And fell his Soul for Vanity,

To Rhyming and the Devil ?

A Dek he had of curious Work,

With glitt'ring Studs about; Within the same did Sandys lurk,

Tho' Ovid lay without.

Now as he scratch'd to fetch up Thought,

Forth popp'd the Sprite so thin ; And from the Key-Hole bolted out,

All upright as a Pin.

With Whikers, Band, and Pantaloon,

And Ruff compos'd most duly ;
This ’Squire he dropp'd his Pen full sooli,

While as the Light burnt bluely.

Ho! Master Sam, quoth Sandys's Sprite,
Write on, nor let me scare

ye; Forsooth, if Rhymes fall in not: right,

To Budgel seek, or Carey.


I hear the Beat of Jacob's Drums,

Poor Ovid finds no Quarter !
See first the merry P.

In Hafte, without his Garter.


Then Lords and Lordings, 'Squires and Knights,

Wits, Witlings, Prigs, and Peers ;
Garth at St. James's, and at White's,

Beats up for Volunteers.

What Fenton will not do, nor Gay,

Nor Congreve, Rowė, nor Stangan,
Tom Bor Tom D'Urfy may,

John Dunton, Steel, or any one.

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If Justice Philip's coftiye Head

Some frigid Rhymes disburses;
They shall like

Perfian Tales be read,
And glad both Babes and Nurses.

Let W-w-k's Muse with Afhjoin,

And Ozel's with Lord Hervey's:
Tickell and Addifot combine,

And Papé translate with Jerois.

himself, that lively Lord, Who bows to every Lady,


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