Classic Poem

Spoken by Mr. Giffard.

The surest Method ancient Wits could find,
To mend Man's Manners, and improve his Mind,
To make Vice odious, Folly mean appear,
Was well-drawn Sartyr, pointed, and severe.
With Humour join'd; what Charms does it impart?
When so well mix'd, and with such curious Art,
That while one wounds, the other heals the Smart.
Like skilful Artists, who are always found
To sooth the Patient, while they search the Wound.

With this our Author treats — but you'll excuse
This first Essay of an unpractis'd Muse,
Who boldly soars in Search of Fame, and sings,
E'er twenty Summers yet have fledg'd her Wings.
This Title to the Fair he recommends,
'Tis by their Means he hopes to gain his Ends,
For Youth and Beauty should be always Friends.

But to the Play — He says 'tis mostly new,
The Plot he thinks his own, the Language too,
The Characters he owns he stole — from You;
But not so stole, as may with Ease appear
Who's represented, how he lives, or where,
No — sev'ral Fools have sate for ev'ry Picture here.
No single Fop is by his Satyr shewn,
Nor whence he came, nor how he may be known,
For then 't had dwindled into low Lampoon.

Yet here dejected quite, young Bays appears,
His Hopes submit to his prevailing Fears:
For some there are, who would for Criticks pass,
And who, in Plays, like Cocks before a Glass,
Quarrel with the Reflection of their Face.
These, by resenting, shew the World they're hit,
Since Characters are drawn for whom they fit:
For your own Sakes then let our Satyr pass;
'Tis Application only makes the Ass.