WELL, sirs, if now my spouse and I should part,
To which kind critic shall I give my heart ?
Stay, let me look, not one in all the place
But has a scurvy, froward, damning face.
Have you resolv'd then on the poet's fall?
Go, ye ill-natur’d, ugly devils ali.
The married sparks I know this play will curse
For the wife's sake; but some of 'em have worse.
Poets themselves their own ill-luck have wrought,
You ne'er had learnt, had not their quarrels taught.
But, as in the disturbance of a state,
Each factious maggot thinks of growing great:
So when the poets first had jarring fits,
You all set up for critics and for wits:
Then straight there came, which cost you mothers' pains,
Songs and lainpoons in litters from your
Libels, like spurious brats, ran up and down,
Which their dull parents were asham’d to own;
But vented 'em in others' names, like whores
That lay their bastards down at honest doors.
For shame, leave off this higgling way of wit,
Railing abroad, and roaring in the pit;
Let poets live in peace, in quiet write,
Else may they all to punish you unite;
Join in one force to study to abuse ye,
And teach your wives and misses how to use ye !