« ПредишнаНапред »
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.
How shall our Author hope a gentler Fate,
104 Prologue to the Three Hours, &c.
Fool is by our Satire bit,
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.
*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.
E Lords and Commons, Men of Wit,
And Pleasure about Town ;
Of Books of high Renown.
Beware of Latin Authors all!
Nor think your Verses Sterling,
And scribble in a Berlin:
For not the Desk with silver Nails,
Nor Bureau of Expence,
To writing of good Sense.
Hear how a Ghost in dead of Night,
With saucer Eyes of Fire,
A Wit and courtly Squire.
Rare Imp of Pbæbus, hopeful Youth!
Like Puppy tame that uses
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 ;
While as the Light burnt bluely.
Ho! Master Sam, quoth Sandys's Sprite,
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 !
In Hafte, without his Garter.
Then Lords and Lordings, 'Squires and Knights,
Wits, Witlings, Prigs, and Peers ;
Beats up for Volunteers.
What Fenton will not do, nor Gay,
Nor Congreve, Rowė, nor Stangan,
John Dunton, Steel, or any one.
If Justice Philip's coftiye Head
Some frigid Rhymes disburses;
Perfian Tales be read,
Let W-w-k's Muse with Afhjoin,
And Ozel's with Lord Hervey's:
And Papé translate with Jerois.
himself, that lively Lord, Who bows to every Lady,