Anababaluthu put in for a fhare,

And little Tom Effences Author was there:
But Apollo had feen his Face on the Stage,
And prudently did not think fit to engage,
TheScumof a Play-boufe,for theProp of an Age,
In the numerous Crowd that incompafs'd him
round,

Little Starch'd Johnny C at his Elbow he found,

His Crevat-ftring new Iron'd, he gently did ftretch

His lilly white Hand out, the Lawrel to reach, Alledging that he had moft right to the Bays, For writing Romances, and th-ting of Plays; Apollo rofe up, and gravely confeft,

Of all Men that writ, his Talent was beft; For fince Fain and Difhonour Mans Life only dam,

The greatest Felicity Mankind can claim, Is to want Senfe of Smart, and to be past Ser.fe of Shame;

And to perfect his Bliss in Poetical Rapture, He bid him be dull to the end of the Chapter. The Poetefs Afra, next fhew'd her sweet Face, And fwore by her Poetry, and her black Ace. The Lawrel by a double Right was her own, For the Plays she had writ, and the Conquests fhe had Won.

Apollo acknowledg'd 'twas hard to deny her, Yet to deal frankly and ingenuoufly by her, He told her were Conquefts, and charms her Pretence,

She ought to have pleaded a Dozen Years fince.

Nor

Nor could Durfy forbear for the Lawrel to tickle,

Protefting that he had the honour to tickle Th' Ears of the Town, with his dear Madam Fickle.

With other Pretenders, whofe Names I'd re hearse,

But that they're too long to stand in my Verse : Apollo quite tir'd with their tedious Harangue, At laft found Tom Betterton's Face in the Gang; For fince Poets without the kind Players may Hang,

By his one facred light be folemnly fwore, That in search of a Lawreat, he'd look out no

more.

A general Murmur ran quite thro' the Hall,
To think that the Bays to an Actor should fall
Tom told 'em, to put his Defart to the Teft,
That he had aid Plays as well as the best,
And was the great'ft Wonder the Age ever bore,
Of all the Play-Scriblers that e'er writ before,
His Wit had moft Worth, and Modesty in't,
For he had writ Plays, yet ne'er came in Print.

4 SATYR upon the Follies of the Men of the AGE,

By the Duke of Buckingham, and the Earl of Rochester.

W

7Hen Shakespear, Johnson, Fletcher, Ruľḍ the Stage,

They took fo bold a Freedom with the Age,

That

That there were scarce a Knave, of Fool inTown
Of any Note, but had his Picture shown;
And (without doubt) tho' fome it may offend,
Nothing helps more than Satyr, to amend
Ill Manners, or is trulier Virtues Friend:
Princes may Laws Ordain, Priefts gravely Preach,
But Poets more fuccefsfully will teach ;
For as a Paffing-Bell frights from his Meat,
The greedy Sick-man, that too much would eat;
So when a Vice ridiculous is made,

Our Neighbours Shame keeps us from growing bad,

But wholesome Remedies few Palates please,
Men rather love what flatters their Disease;
Pimps, Parafites, Buffoons, and all the Crew
That under Friendship's Name weak Man undo,
Find their falfe Service kindlier understood,
Than fuch as tell both Truths to do us good;
Look where you will, and you shall hardly find
A Man without fome Sickness of the Mind:
In vain we Wife would feem, while ev'ry Luft
Whisks us about, as Whirl-winds do the Duft.
Here for fome needlefs Gain, the Wretch is hurl'd
From Pole to Pole, and flav'd about the World,
While the Reward of all his Pains and Care,
Ends in that defpicable Thing, his Heir.
There a vain Fop Mortgages all his Land,
To buy that gawdy Play-thing, a Command 3
To ride a Cock-horfe, wear a Scarf ats Arfe,
And play the Pudding in a May-day Farce,
Here one Whom God to make a Fool thought fit,
In fpight of Providence will be a Wit;

But

But wanting Strength t' uphold his ill made Choice,

Sets up with Lewdness, Blafphemy and Noife ;
There at bis Mrs. Feet a Lover lies,

And for a Tawdry painted Baby dies;
Falls on his Knees, adores; and is afraid
Of the vain Idol he himself has made:
These, and a Thousand Fools unmention'd
here,

Hate Poets all, because they Poets fear
Take heed (they cry) yonder mad Dog will bite,
He cares not whom he falls on in his fit ;
Come but in's way and straight a new Lampoon
Shall fpread your mangled Fame about the
Town.

But why am I this Bug bear to you all?
My Pen is dip'd in no fuch bitter Gall.
"He that can rail at one he calls his Friend,
Or hear him (abfent) wrong'd, and not de-
"fend

Who for the fake of fome Ill-natur'd Jests,
Tells what he should conceal, invents the

reft;

"To fatal Midnight Quarrels can betray "His brave Companion, and then run away, Leaving him to be murder'd in the Street, "Then put it off with fome Buffoon Conceit; This, this is he you fhould beware of all, "Yet him a Pleafant, Witty Man, you call; To whet your dull Debauches up and down, You seek him as top Fidler of the Town:

But

But if I laugh when the Court-Coxcombs show
To fee the Booby Sotus dance Provoe;
Or chattering Porus from the Side-box grin,
Trickt like a Lady's Monkey new made clean:
To me the Name of Railer ftraight you give,
Call me a Man that knows not how to live:

But Wenches to their Keepers true hall turn,
Stale Maids of Honour proffer'd Husbands fcorn,
Great States-men Flattery and Clinches hate,
And long in Office, die without Eftatez
Against a Bribe, Court-Judges hall decide,'
The City Knavery want, the Clergy Pride:
E'er that black Malice in my Rhimes you find,
That wrongs a Worthy Man, or hurts a Friend.
But then perhaps you'll fay, Why do you write,
What you think harmless Mirth, the World
thinks Spight. Cu

CALL

.

Why fhould your Fingers itch to have a lash
At Simius the Buffoon, or Cully Bafh?
What is't to you, if Alidore's fine Whore,
Lies with fome Fop, whilft he's fhut out of Doors
Confider pray, that dang'rous Weapon, Wit,
Frightens a Million, when a few you hit:
Whip but a Curr, as you ride thro' a Town,
And ftrait his Fellow Currs the Quarrel own;
Each Knave, or Fool that's Confcious of a
Crime,
Tho' he scapes now, looks for't another time.

Sir, I confefs all you have faid is true, But who has not fome Folly to pursue? Miloturn'd Quixot, fancy'd Battles, Fights, When the fifth Bottle had encreas'd the Lights,

War,

T