Classic Poem

Now, luck yet send us, and a little wit
Will serve to make our play hit;
According to the palates of the season,
Here is rhyme, not empty of reason
This we were bid to credit from our poet,
Whose true scope, if you would know it,
In all his poems still hath been this measure,
To mix profit with your pleasure,
And not as some, whose throats their envy failing,
Cry hoarsely, All he writes is railing;
And when his plays come forth, think they can flout them,
With saying, He was a year about them.
To these there needs no lie but this his creature,
Which was, two months since, no feature;
And though he dares give them five lives to mend it,
'Tis known, five weeks fully penned it,
From his own hand, without a coadjutor,
Novice, journey man, or tutor
Yet thus much I can give you as a token
Of his play's worth: no eggs are broken,
Nor quaking custards with fierce teeth affrighted,
Wherewith your rout are so delighted
Nor hales he in a gull, old ends reciting,
To stop gaps in his loose writing;
With such a deal of monstrous and forced action,
As might make Bedlam a faction;
Nor made he his play for jests stolen from each table,
But makes jests to fit his fable;
And so presents quick comedy refined,
As best critics have designed;
The laws of time, place, persons he observeth,
From no needful rule he swerveth
All gall and copperas from his ink he draineth,
Only a little salt remaineth,
Wherewith he'll rub your cheeks till, red with laughter,
They shall look fresh a week after.