University of Virginia Library

PROLOGUE.

To what a wretched state are Poets born,
Split on the Rocks of Envy or of Scorn?
Ev'n to the best the promis'd Wreath's deny'd,
And just Contempt attends on all beside.
This one wou'd think shou'd lessen the Temptation,
But they are Poëts by Predestination.
The fatal Bait undaunted they persue;
And claim the Laurel as their Labour's Due.
But where's the Use of Merit, or of Laws,
When Ingnorance and Malice judge the Cause?
'Twixt these, like Æsop's Husband, Poëts fare,
This pulls the black and that the silver Hair,
Till they have left the Poëm bald and bare.
Behold the dreadfull spot they ought to fear,
Whole Loads of Poët-bane are scattered here.
Where e'er it lights the sad Effects we find,
Tho' on the tender Hearts of Woman-kind.
The Men (whose Talents they themselves mistake,
Or misapply, for Contradiction sake.)
Spight of their Stars must needs be Critiques still,
Nay, tho' prohibited by th' Irish Bill.
Blest Age! when all our Actions seem design'd
To prove a War 'twixt Reason and Mankind!
Here an affected Cocquet perks and prunes,
Tho' she's below the Level of Lampoons,
Venting her Fly-blown Charms till her Own Squire
Is grown too nice and dainty to Admire.
There a pretending Fop (a Man of Note
More for his thread-bare Jest than Gawdy Coat)
Sees every Coxcomb's Mirth, yet wants the Sense
To know 'tis caus'd by his Impertinence.
Nor rests the Mighty Grievance here alone;
For not content with Follys of our own,
We plunder the fair Sex of what we can,
Who seldom miss their dear Revenge on Man.
Their property of Falshood we invade,
Whilst they usurp our Mid-night Scouring Trade.