University of Virginia Library

Prologue TO TIMON.

Since the bare gleanings of the stage are grown
The only portion for brisk Wits o'th' Town,
We mean such as have no crop of their own;
Methinks you should encourage them that sow,
Who are to watch and gather what does grow.
Thus a poor Poet must maintain a Muse,
As you do Mistresses for others use:
The wittiest Play can serve him but one day,
Though for three months it finds you what to say.
Yet you your Creditors of wit will fail,
And never pay, but borrow on and rail.
Poor Echo's can repeat wit, though they've none,
Like Bag-pipes they no sound have of their own,
Till some into their emptiness be blown.
Yet—
To be thought Wits and Judges they're so glad,
And labour for't, as if they were Wit-mad.
Some will keep Tables for the Wits o'th'Nation,
And Poets eat them into reputation.
Some Scriblers will Wit their whole bus'ness make,
For labour'd dullness grievous pains will take;
And when with many Throes they've travail'd long,
They now and then bring forth a Foolish Song.
One Fop all modern Poets will condemn,
And by this means a parlons Judg will seem.
Wit is a common Idol, and in vain
Fops try a thousand wayes the name to gain.
Pray judge the nauseous Farces of the Age,
And meddle not with sence upon the Stage;
To you our Poet no one line submits,
Who such a Coil will keep to be thought Wits:
'Tis you who truly are so, he would please;
But knows it is not to be done with ease.
In the Art of Judging you as wife are grown,
As in their choice some Ladies of the Town.
Your neat shap't Barbary Wits you will despise,
And none but lusty Sinewy Writers prize.
Old English Shakespear-stomachs you have still,
And judge as our Fore-fathers writ with skill.
You Coin the Wit, the Witlings of the Town
Retailers are, that spread it up and down;
Set but your stamp upon't, though it be brass,
With all the Wou'd-be-Wits, 'twill currant pass.
Try it to day and we are sure 'twill hit,
All to your Soveraign Empire must submit.