VPON THIS WORKE OF HIS BELOUED FRIEND THE AVTHOR.
I am snap't already, and may goe my way;
The Poet Critick's cane; I heare him say,
This Towne's mistooke, the Authors Worke's a Play.
He could not misse it; he will strait appeare
At such a baite; 'twas laid on purpose there
To take the vermine, and I haue him here.
Sirra, you wilbe nibling; a small bitt
(A sillable), when yo' are i' the hungry fitt,
Will serue to stay the stomacke of your witt.
Foole; Knaue; what's worse? for worse cannot depraue thee.
And were the diuell now instantly to haue thee,
Thou canst not instance such a worke to saue thee,
'Mongst all the ballets which thou dost compose,
And what thou stil'st thy Poems, ill as those,
And, void of rime and reason, thy worse Prose.
Yet like a rude Iack-sauce in Poesie,
With thoughts vnblest and hand vnmanerly,
Rauishing branches from Apollo's tree:
Thou mak'st a garland (for thy touch vnfit)
And boldly deck'st thy pig-brain'd sconce with it,
As if it were the Supreme Head of wit.
The blameles Muses blush, who not allow
That reuerend Order to each vulgar brow;
Whose sinfull touch prophanes the holy Bough.
Hence (shallow Prophet) and admire the straine
Of thine owne Pen, or thy poore Copesmat's veine:
This Piece too curious is for thy coarse braine.
Here witt (more fortvnate) is ioyn'd with Art,
And that most sacred Frenzie beares a part,
Infus'd by Nature in the Poet's heart.
Here may the Puny-wits themselues direct;
Here may the Vilest find what to affect;
And Kings may learne their proper Dialect.
On, then, deare friend: thy Pen thy Name shall spread,
And shal'st thou write, while thou shall not be read,
Thy Muse must labour, when thy Hand is dead.
