| |
| POETS, like disputants, when reasons fail, | |
| Have one sure refuge left—and that’s to rail. | |
| Fop, coxcomb, fool, are thundered through the pit; | |
| And this is all their equipage of wit. | |
| We wonder how the devil this difference grows | 5 |
| Betwixt our fools in verse, and yours in prose: | |
| For, ’faith, the quarrel rightly understood, | |
| ’Tis civil war with their own flesh and blood. | |
| The threadbare author hates the gaudy coat; | |
| And swears at the gilt coach, but swears afoot: | 10 |
| For ’tis observed of every scribbling man, | |
| He grows a fop as fast as e’er he can; | |
| Prunes up, and asks his oracle, the glass, | |
| If pink or purple best become his face. | |
| For our poor wretch, he neither rails nor prays; | 15 |
| Nor likes your wit just as you like his plays; | |
| He has not yet so much of Mr. Bayes. | |
| He does his best; and if he cannot please, | |
| Would quietly sue out his writ of ease. | |
| Yet, if he might his own grand jury call, | 20 |
| By the fair sex he begs to stand or fall. | |
| Let Cæsar’s power the men’s ambition move, | |
| But grace you him who lost the world for love! | |
| Yet if some antiquated lady say, | |
| The last age is not copied in his play; | 25 |
| Heaven help the man who for that face must drudge, | |
| Which only has the wrinkles of a judge. | |
| Let not the young and beauteous join with those: | |
| For should you raise such numerous hosts of foes, | |
| Young wits and sparks he to his aid must call; | 30 |
| ’Tis more than one man’s work to please you all. | |
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