University of Virginia Library

You that think Poets as well may
Be spar'd, as Serjeants at th' last day;
That at condemning have a Muse,
And never Fancy but t' Accuse;
Stand pale and sentenc'd at high sense,
And rail at Wit i' your own Defence:
Say it brings Plagues and Battails still,
And think Parnassus calv'd Edge-hill;
View the Great Cartwright's spacious Wit,
All Instance and Example Writ;
Who in his unclip'd Fancy flew
To such a dazling height as drew
Our little Writers to admire
And be instructed too, as Fire
Shot from above, commands our Gaze,
And does Enlighten as Amaze,
Whilst in his brighter Thoughts we mark
The height of Clouds, but not their Dark;
And he to th' Reader does appear
A Chrystall Wit, Solid and Clear;
Whom no sowre Critick can impeach,
And yet less than a Critick reach,
Unlike those Wits that losing sight,
(Like Birds unseen in their tall flight)
As Land-flouds high and Muddy flow,
And stand on Tiptoe 'cause th' are Low.
He flows clean like some new-pierc'd rock,
And by himself, the Prophet, struck,
Gives Reason to his Fansy still,
Himself inspires th' Inspiring Hill,
Wittier by no immodest strain,
Delights his Reader, does not stain,
No Pandaring Pen here taught loose Love,
His Quill not pluckt from Venus Dove;
Far from Apollo's weaker Prayse,
He spoyles no Virgins to make Bayes.
Marke his salt healing Jests, by which
He rubb'd and kill'd all wanton Itch,
And no man durst loosely come nigh
A Lip, while his chast tooth was by;
He meant his Satyr-wit to coole
Our Vice; and as that holy Poole
Not till disturb'd about did deale
Its health, and only Moov'd did heale;
He alwayes ran harmlesse and pure,
But being Angred still did Cure.

Had this Scene-Wit not met an Age
That frowneth down the mourning Stage,
That all Dramatick Lawes confutes,
And maketh All the Actors Mutes,
(Unlike the gallant Roman Time
When Fancy was so far from Crime,
That two great ruling things seem'd fit
For equall Bayes, Conquest and VVit:
When if a Consul high had eat,
A Poet shar'd and Sung his Meat,
Some Wit still in his bosome lay,
And's Meale became an Ode next day,
When now in Forc'd and last Designe
Laureats are faine to plant th'r own Wine)
How had it crackt the Rooms, and made
Play-seeing th' only London Trade,
When if some close-lan'd Citizen
Zealous for his Labouring Hen,
Had panting for a Midwife run
T' help into th' dark his comming son,
These Bils had made him stop, and send
To bid her Groan till th' Siedge did end,
Though of a Boy he lost the hope
To heir his Prunes and Castile-soap.

And now we Writers too, that think
We sprinkle Balme instead of Inke
On his lov'd Memory, doe curse
The Printers that have made us worse
Poets than Mourners, whose sly drift
Is, thus to rob us of our Theft;
For He unpublish'd did allow
Safe Wit t'all Takers, and We now
Like Pirats praysing Plate-Fleets, deal,
Sadly commend what we would steal.