University of Virginia Library

Cou'd Authors guess what Spirit wou'd possess you,
They then might better know, how to Address you?
Whether the kind, or cruel Part, you'l chuse,
Or blast, or shelter, a just sprouting Muse.
Unknown, unfriended, as our Poet is,
No Factions form'd, to save him from your Hiss;
No beauteous Shees, when his thin Third-Day comes,
To charm you hither, from the Drawing-Room:
No Party made, at Will's, or Tom's, or Sam's,
At pleasure you are left, to Save or Damn.
No Friend, that murthering Opera, may cease,
Or gain from t'other House, a six-days Peace.
Yet sanguine in the Vertue of his Cause,
He hopes Incouragement, if not Applause.
Mistaken Fool, to think to quit his Score
By Begging, at your charitable Door.
Who call best labour'd Scenes, mean trifling Art,
Guarding the soft Avenues, to your Heart.
Unless we shou'd the new Italian way,
Heav'ns then what Admiration you'd betray!
Nor dare to judge, unknowing what we say.
The Terror which they move must needs be strong
Where Wars, and Duels, are perform'd in Song.
That Sound in spight of Sense, should please so long!
Did Shakespear, Otway live, they'd live in vain,
Amidst a Race who Nature's force disclaim;
Nature, the truest Touchstone of our Art,
Did but great Nature reassume her part.
Back to Monastick Altars, she'de constrain
(Where Faith, not Reason, does the Rule maintain)
The fugetive Voice, with all her Hymning Train.

Of you, bright Nymphs, our Author humbly prays,
You wou'd forget what the rough Sultan says.
Convinc'd, at length, he does your Empire own,
And at your feet, lays all his Errors down.
If his Performance, chance to please the Fair?
Joys so refin'd, no youthful Breast can bear:
No more by Fear, or Modesty, conceal'd,
He then will stand your happy Slave, reveal'd.