That both together, like an ape's mock-face,
By near resembling man, do man disgrace.
Thorough-pac'd ill actors may, perhaps, be cur'd;
Half players, like half wits, can't be endur'd.
Yet thefe are they, who durft expose the age
Of the great
* wonder of the English stage;
Whom Nature feem'd to form for your delight,
And bid him fpeak, as she bid Shakespeare write.
Thofe blades indeed are cripples in their art,
Mimic his foot, but not his speaking part.
Let them the Traitor or Volpone try,
Rage like Cethegus, or like Caffius die,
They ne'er had fent to Paris for fuch fancies,
As monsters heads and Merry-Andrew's dances.
Wither'd, perhaps, not perish'd, we appear;
But they are blighted, and ne'er came to bear.
Th' old poets drefs'd your miftrefs Wit before;
Thefe draw you on with an old painted whore,
And fell, like bawds, patch'd plays for maids twice o'er.
Yet they may fcorn our house and actors too,
Since they have fwell'd fo high to hectar you.
They cry, Pox o' these Covent-Garden men,
Damn them, not one of them but keeps out ten.
Were they once gone, we for those thundering blades
Should have an audience of fubftantial trades,
Who love our muzzled boys and tearing fellows,
My Lord, great Neptune, and great nephew olus.
Pfyche, the goddess of each field and grove.
He cries, I' faith, methinks 'tis well enough;
But you roar out and cry, 'Tis all damn'd stuff!
So to their house the graver fops repair,
While men of wit find one another here.
By the Lady ELIZABETH HOWARD.
IT has of late took up a trick t' appear
Unmannerly, or at the beft, fevere :
And poets fhare the fate by which we fall,
When kindly we attempt to please you all.
'Tis hard your fcorn fhould against fuch prevail,
Whofe ends are to divert you, though they fail.
You men would think it an ill-natur'd jest,
Should we laugh at you when you do
Then rail not here, though you fee reason for 't;
If wit can find itself no better sport,
Wit is a very foolish thing at court.
Wit's bufinefs is to please, and not to fright;
'Tis no wit to be always in the right;
You'll find it none, who dare be fo to-night.
Few fo ill-bred will venture to a play,
To spy out faults in what we women say.
For us, no matter what we speak, but how:
How kindly can we say------I hate you now!
And for the men, if you 'll laugh at them, do;
They mind themselves fo much, they'll ne'er mind you.
But why do I descend to lose a prayer
On those small faints in wit? the god fits there!
To you (Great SIR) my message hither tends,
From Youth and Beauty, your allies and friends;
See my credentials written in my face,
They challenge your protection in this place;
And hither come with fuch a force of charms,
As may give check ev'n to your profperous arms.
Millions of Cupids hovering in the rear,
Like eagles following fatal troops, appear:
All waiting for the slaughter which draws nigh,
Of those bold gazers who this night must die.
Nor can you 'scape our foft captivity,
From which old age alone must set you free.
Then tremble at the fatal confequence,
Since 'tis well known, for your own part, great Prince,
'Gainst us you still have made a weak defence.
Be generous and wife, and take our part;
Elfe you may find, too late, that we are things
Born to kill vaffals, and to conquer kings.
But oh to what vain conqueft I pretend !
While Love is our commander, and your friend.
Our victory your empire more afsures,
For Love will ever make the triumph yours.
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