OF all dramatic writing, comic wit,
As 'tis the best, so 'tis most 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, must 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 fee
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 use,
Except you charge an oaf upon each house,
Like the train bands, and every man engage 25
For a fufficient fool, to ferve the ftage.
And when, with much ado, you get him there,
Where he in all his glory fhould appear,
Your poets make him fuch 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 should 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.
Would you but change, for serious 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 should this play refuse : 45 As tradesmen, by the change of fashions, lose, With fome content, their fripperies of France, In hope it may their ftaple trade advance.
THE FIRST DAY OF THE KING'S HOUSE ACTING AFTER THE FIRE.
So fhipwreck'd paffengers escape to land,
So look they, when on the bare beach they stand
Dropping and cold, and their first fear scarce
Expecting famine on a defart fhore.
From that hard climate we muft wait for bread, Whence e'en the natives, forc'd by hunger,
Our stage does human chance present to view,
But ne'er before was feen fo fadly true:
You are chang'd too, and your pretence to see
Is but a nobler name for charity.
Your own provifions furnish out our feafts, While you the founders make yourselves the guefts.
Of all mankind befide fate had fome care,
But for poor Wit no portion did prepare,
'Tis left a rent-charge to the brave and fair. 15
You cherish'd it, and now its fall
you mourn, Which blind unmanner'd zealots make their
Who think that fire a judgment on the stage,
Which spar'd not temples in its furious rage.
But as our new-built city rifes higher,
So from old theatres may new aspire,
Since fate contrives magnificence by fire.
Our great metropolis does far furpafs
Whate'er is now, and equals all that was;
Our wit as far does foreign wit excel,
And, like a king, fhould in a palace dwell.
But we with golden hopes are vainly fed,
Talk high, and entertain you in a shed:
Your prefence here, for which we humbly fue,
Will grace old theatres, and build up new.
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