THEY, who have beft fucceeded on the stage,
Have ftill conformed their genius to their age.
Thus Jonfon did mechanic humour show,
When men were dull, and converfation low.
Then comedy was faultlefs, but 'twas coarse:
Cobb's tankard was a jeft, and Otter's horse.
And, as their comedy, their love was mean;
Except, by chance, in fome one laboured scene,
Which must atone for an ill-written play.
They rofe, but at their height could feldom
stay.
Fame then was cheap, and the first comer fped; And they have kept it since, by being dead. But, were they now to write, when critics weigh Each line, and every word, throughout a play, None of them, no not Jonfon in his height, Could pass, without allowing grains for weight. Think it not envy, that these truths are told; Our poet's not malicious, though he's bold.
'Tis not to brand them, that their faults are
But, by their errors, to excufe his own.
If love and honour now are higher rais'd,
'Tis not the poet, but the age is prais'd.
Wit's now arriv'd to a more high degree;
Our native language more refin'd and free.
Our ladies and our men now fpeak more wit 25
In converfation, than those poets writ.
Then, one of thefe is, confequently, true;
That what this poet writes comes fhort of you,
And imitates you ill (which moft he fears),
Or elfe his writing is not worfe than theirs. 30
Yet, though you judge (as fure the critics will),
That fome before him writ with greater skill,
In this one praise he has their fame furpast,
To please an age more gallant than the last.
AS needy gallants in the fcriveners' hands, Court the rich knave that gripes their mortgag'd
The first fat buck of all the feafon's fent,
And keeper takes no fee in compliment:
The dotage of fome Englishmen is fuch,
To fawn on thofe who ruin them-the Dutch.
They shall have all, rather than make a war
With those who of the fame religion are.
The Straits, the Guinea trade, the herrings too,
Nay, to keep friendship, they shall pickle you. 10
Some are refolv'd not to find out the cheat,
But, cuckold like, love him who does the feat:
What injuries foe'er upon us fall,
Yet, ftill, The fame religion, anfwers all:
Religion wheedled you to civil war,
Drew English blood, and Dutchmen's now would spare:
Be gull'd no longer, for you'll find it true, They have no more religion, faith-than you;
Intereft's the god they worship in their state;
And you, I take it, have not much of that.
Well, monarchies may own religion's name,
But states are atheifts in their very frame.
They share a fin, and fuch proportions fall,
That, like a ftink, 'tis nothing to them all.
How they love England, you shall see this day;
No map
fhews Holland truer than our play: 26
Their pictures and infcriptions well we know;
We may be bold one medal fure to show.
View then their falfehoods, rapine, cruelty;
And think what once they were, they ftill would
But hope not either language, plot, or art;
'Twas writ in hafte, but with an English heart:
And leaft hope wit; in Dutchmen that would be
As much improper, as would honesty.
A POET once the Spartans led to fight,
And made them conquer in the mufe's right;
So would our poet lead you on this day,
Showing your tortur'd fathers in his play.
To one well-born the affront is worfe, and more,
When he's abus'd, and baffled by a boor: 6
With an ill grace the Dutch their mifchiefs do,
They've both ill-nature and ill-manners too.
Well
may they boast themselves an ancient na-
tion,
For they were bred ere manners were in fashion; And their new commonwealth has fet them
Only from honour and civility.
Venetians do not more uncouthly ride,
Than did their lubber ftate mankind beftride; Their fway became them with as ill a mien, 15 As their own paunches fwell above their chin: Yet is their empire no true growth, but humour, And only two kings' touch can cure the tumour.
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