A Rules;

The great ones are thought mad, the small ones Fools
Yet fure the best are most feverely fated,

اد

A

a

For Fools are only laugh'd at, Wits are hated.
Blockheads with Reafon Men of Senfe abhor
But Fool 'g inft Fool, is barb'rous Civil War.
Why on all Authors then fhou'd Criticks fall?
Since fome have writ, and fhewn 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, thefe graceless Owlers gain;
Theirs are the Rules of France, the Plots of Spain:
But Wit like Wine, from happier Climates brought,
Dafh'd by thefe Rogues, turns English common
Draught.

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

How fhall our Author hope a gentler Fate,
Who dares most impudently not translate.
It had been civil in thefe ticklish Times,

To fetch his Fools and Knaves from foreign Climes,

104 Prologue to the Three Hours, &c.

Spaniards and Freneb abufe to the World's End,
But fpare old England, leaft you hurt a Friend.
If
any. Fool is by our Satire bit,

Let him hifs loud, to fhew you all, he's hit.
Poets make Characters, as Salefmen Clothes,
We take no Measure of your Fops and Beaus,
But here all Sizes and all Shapes you meet,
And fit your felves, like Chaps in Monmouth-Street.
GALLANTS! look here, this Fools-Cap has an Air,
Goodly and fmart, with Ears of Ifachar.
Let no one Fool engrofs it, or confine,

A common Blefling! now 'tis yours, now mine.
But Poets in all Ages had the Care

To keep this Cap, for fuch as will, to wear.
Our Author has it now, (for every Wit

Of Course refign'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.

SANDYS'S

*SANDYS'S GHOST: Or a proper new Ballad on the new Ovid's Metamorphofis: As it was intended to be tranflated by Perfons of Quality.

YE

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 Verfes Sterling,
Tho' with a Golden Pen you

And fcribble in a Berlin:

fcrawl,

For not the Desk with filver Nails,
Nor Bureau of Expence,
Nor Standish well japan'd, avails
To writing of good Senfe.

Hear how a Ghoft in dead of Night,
With faucer Eyes of Fire,

In woful wife did fore affright
A Wit and courtly 'Squire.

Rare Imp of Phabus, 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 fo civil;
And fell his Soul for Vanity,
To Rhyming and the Devil?

A Desk he had of curious Work,
With glitt'ring Studs about;
Within the fame did Sandys lurk,
Tho' Ovid lay without.

Now as he fcratch'd to fetch up Thought,"
Forth popp'd the Sprite fo thin;

And from the Key-Hole bolted out,
All upright as a Pin.

With Whiskers, Band, and Pantaloon,
And Ruff compos'd moft duly;
This 'Squire he dropp'd his Pen full foon,
While as the Light burnt bluely.

Ho! Mafter Sam, quoth Sandys's Sprite,
Write on, nor let me fcare ye;
For footh, if Rhymes fall in not right,
To Budgel feek, or Carey.

I

I hear the Beat of Jacob's Drums,

Poor Ovid finds no Quarter!

See first the merry P

comes

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, Rowe, nor Stanyan,
Tom B- tor Tom D'Urfy may,
John Dunton, Steel, or any one.

If Juftice Philip's coftive Head

Some frigid Rhymes disburses; They fhall like Perfian Tales be read,

And glad both Babes and Nurses.

Let W-rw-k's Mufe with Abt join,
And Ozel's with Lord Hervey's:

Tickell and Addifon combine,

And Ppé tranflate with Jervis.

Lhimself, that lively Lord,

Who bows to every Lady,

Shall