Yet none Sir Fopling him, or him can call; 15 He's knight o' the shire, and represents ye all. From each he meets he culls whate'er he can; Legion's his name, a people in a man.
His bulky folly gathers as it goes,
And, rolling o'er you, like a fnow-ball grows. 20
His various modes from various fathers follow;
One taught the tofs, and one the new French
wallow:
His fword-knot this, his cravat that defign'd;
And this, the yard-long snake he twirls behind.
From one the facred periwig he gain'd,
Which wind ne'er blew, nor touch of hat pro-
phan’d.
Another's diving bow he did adore,
Which with a fhog cafts all the hair before,
Till he with full decorum brings it back,
And rifes with a water-spaniel shake.
As for his fongs, the ladies dear delight,
Thefe fure he took from most of you who write.
Yet every man is fafe from what he fear'd;
For no one fool is hunted from the herd.
POETS, like difputants, when reasons fail, Have one fure refuge left-and that's to rail. Fop, coxcomb, fool, are thunder'd through the pit;
And this is all their equipage of wit.
We wonder how the devil this difference grows, 5
Betwixt our fools in verfe, and your's in profe:
For, 'faith, the quarrel rightly understood,
'Tis civil war with their own flesh and blood.
The thread-bare author hates the gaudy coat;
And fwears at the gilt coach, but swear's a-foot;
For 'tis obferv'd of every scribbling man,
He grows a fop as faft as e'er he can ;
and asks his oracle, the glass,
If pink and purple beft become his face.
For our poor wretch, he neither rails nor
Nor likes your wit juft as you like his plays;
He has not yet fo much of Mr. Bayes.
He does his beft; and if he cannot please,
Would quietly fue out his writ of ease.
Yet, if he might his own grand jury call,
By the fair fex he begs to ftand or fall.
Let Cæfar's power the men's ambition move,
But grace you him who loft the world for love!
Yet if fome antiquated lady fay,
The laft age is not copied in his play;
Heaven help the man who for that face muft drudge,
Which only has the wrinkles of a judge.
Let not the young and beauteous join with
For fhould you raife fuch numerous hofts of foes,
Young wits and fparks he to his aid must call; 30 'Tis more than one man's work to please you all.
TRUE wit has feen its best days long ago; It ne'er look'd up, fince we were dipt in show; When fenfe in doggrel rhimes and clouds was loft,
And dulnefs flourish'd at the actor's coft.
Nor ftopt it here; when tragedy was done,
Satire and humour the fame fate have run,
And comedy is funk to trick and pun.
Now our machining lumber will not fell,
And you no longer care for heaven or hell;
What stuff can please you next, the Lord can
tell.
Let them, who the rebellion first began
To wit, reftore the monarch, if they can;
Our author dares not be the firft bold man.
He, like the prudent citizen, takes care,
To keep for better marts his ftaple ware;
His toys are good enough for Sturbridge fair.
Tricks were the fashion; if it now be spent,
'Tis time enough at Eafter to invent;
No man will make up a new fuit for Lent.
If now and then he takes a small pretence,
To forage for a little wit and fenfe,
Pray pardon him, he meant you no offence.
Next fummer, Noftradamus tells, they fay,
That all the critics fhall be shipped away,
And not enow be left to damn a play.
every fail befide, good heaven, be kind; But drive away that swarm with fuch a wind, That not one locuft may be left behind!
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