PROLOGUE FOR MR. D'URFY'S PLAY. 107 He fcorn'd to borrow from the wits of yore, But ever writ, as none e'er writ before. You modern wits, fhou'd each man bring his claim, Have desperate debentures on your fame; And little wou'd be left you, I'm afraid, If all your debts to Greece and Rome were paid. From his deep fund our author largely draws, Nor finks his credit lower than it was. Tho' plays for honour in old time he made, 'Tis now for better reasons to be paid. Believe him, he has known the world too long, And feen the death of much immortal fong. He says, poor poets loft, while players won, As pimps grow rich, while gallants are undone. Though Tom the poet writ with ease and pleasure, The comick Tom abounds in other treasure. * PROLOGUE A TO THE Three Hours after Marriage. UTHORS are judg'd by ftrange capricious rules; The great ones are thought mad, the small ones fools: Yet fure the best are most severely fated ; For fools are only laugh'd at, wits are hated. Blockheads with reafon men of fenfe abhor; But fool 'gainst fool, is barb'rous civil war. Why on all authors then fhou'd criticks fall? Since fome have writ, and fhewn nowit at all. Condemna play of theirs, and they evade it; Cry, "Damn not us, but damn the French "who made it." : By running goods these graceless owlers gain; Theirs are the rules of France, the plots of Spain: But wit, like wine, from happier climates brought, Dash'd by these rogues, turns English common draught. They pall Moliere's and Lopez' fprightly ftrain, And teach dull Harlequins to grin in vain. How PROLOGUE TO THE THREE HOURS, etc. 109 How fhall our author hopea gentler fate, Who dares most impudently not tranflate! It had been civil in these ticklish times To fetch his fools and knaves from foreign climes. Spaniards and French abuse to the world's end; But fpare old England, left you hurt a friend. any fool is by our fatire bit, If Let him hifs loud, to fhew you all he's hit. Poets make characters, as falefmen clothes; We take no meafure of your fops and beaus; But here all fizes and all shapes you meet, And fit yourselves, like chaps in MonmouthStreet.. Gallants! look here; this fool's cap has an air Goodly and fmart, with ears of Iffachar. mine. But poets in all ages had the care Shews a cap with ears. + Flings down the cap, and exit. OR, A Proper New BALLAD ΟΝ ΤΗΕ New OVID's METAMORPHOSES, As it was intended to be tranflated by Persons of Quality. YE lords and commons, men of wit And pleasure about town, you Read this, e're tranflate one bit Beware of Latin authors all! Nor think verses sterling, your Though with a golden pen you scrawl, For not the desk with filver nails, Hear how a ghoft in dead of night, In woful wife did fore affright Rare Rare imp of Phœbus, hopeful youth! Like puppy tame, that uses To fetch and carry in his mouth Ah! why did he write poetry, A desk he had of curious work, Now, as he scratch'd to fetch up thought, With whiskers, band, and pantaloon, Ho! mafter Sam, quoth Sandys' fprite, |