ELF-LOVE, which, never rightly understood, Makes poets ftill conclude their plays are good, And malice, in all critics, reigns fo high, That for fmall errours, they whole plays decry ; So that to fee this fondness, and that spite, You'd think that none but madmen judge or
Therefore our poet, as he thinks not fit
To impofe upon you what he writes for wit;
So hopes, that, leaving you your cenfures free,
You equal judges of the whole will be:
They judge but half, who only faults will fee.
Poets, like lovers, fhould be bold and dare,
They spoil their business with an over-care;
And he, who fervilely creeps after sense,
Is fafe, but ne'er will reach an excellence.
Hence 'tis, our poet, in his conjuring,
Allow'd his fancy the full fcope and swing.
But when a tyrant for his theme he had,
He loos'd the reins, and bid his mufe run mad:
And though he stumbles in a full career,
Yet rafhness is a better fault than fear.
He faw his way; but in fo fwift a pace,
To choose the ground might be to lose the race.
They then, who of each trip the advantage take,
Find but thofe faults, which they want wit to
OF all dramatic writing, comic wit,
As 'tis the beft, fo 'tis moft hard to hit.
For it lies all in level to the
Where all may judge, and each defect may spy.
Humour is that, which every day we meet,
And therefore known as every public street;
In which, if e'er the poet go aftray,
You all can point, 'twas there he loft his way.
But, what's fo common, to make pleasant too,
Is more than any wit can always do.
For 'tis like Turks, with hen and rice to treat;
To make regalios out of common meat.
But, in your diet, you grow favages:
Nothing but human flesh your taste can please; And, as their feafts with flaughter'd flaves began, So you, at each new play, muft have a man.
Hither you come, as to fee prizes fought;
If no blood's drawn, you cry, the prize is nought. But fools grow wary now; and, when they see A poet eyeing round the company,
Straight each man for himself begins to doubt; They fhrink like feamen when a prefs comes.
Few of them will be found for public ufe,
Except you charge an oaf upon each house,
Like the train bands, and every man engage 25
For a fufficient fool, to ferve the stage.
And when, with much ado, you get him there,
Where he in all his glory fhould appear,
Your poets make him such rare things to fay,
That he's more wit than any man i' th' play: 30
But of fo ill a mingle with the rest,
As when a parrot's taught to break a jest.
Thus, aiming to be fine, they make a show,
As tawdry fquires in country churches do.
Things well confider'd, 'tis fo hard to make 35
A comedy, which fhould the knowing take,
That our dull poet, in defpair to please,
Does humbly beg, by me, his writ of ease.
'Tis a land-tax, which he's too poor to pay;
You therefore must fome other impoft lay. 40
Would you but change, for ferious plot and
verfe,
This motley garniture of fool and farce,
Nor fcorn a mode, because 'tis taught at home,
Which does, like vefts, our gravity become,
Our poet yields you fhould this play refuse:
As tradesmen, by the change of fashions, lofe,
With fome content, their fripperies of France,
In hope it may their staple trade advance.
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