Classic Poem

They, who have best succeeded on the Stage,
Have still conform'd their Genius to their Age.
Thus Jonson did Mechanique humour show,
When Men were dull, and Conversation low.
Then, Comedy was Faultless, but 'twas course:
Cobb's Tankard was a Jest, and Otter's Horse.
And as their Comedy, their Love was mean;
Except, by chance, in some one labour'd Scene,
Which must attone for an ill-written Play.
They rose; but at their height could seldome stay.
Fame then was cheap, and the first comer sped;
And they have kept it since, by being dead.
But were they now to write, when Critiques weigh
Each Line, and ev'ry Word, throughout a Play,
None of 'em, no not Jonson, in his height,
Could pass, without allowing grains for weight.
Think it not envy that these truths are told;
Our Poet's not malicious, though he's bold.
'Tis not to brand 'em that their faults are shown,
But, by their errours, to excuse his own.
If Love and Honour now are higher rais'd,
'Tis not the Poet, but the Age is prais'd.
Wit's new ariv'd to a more high degree;
Our native Language more refin'd and free.
Our Ladies and our men now speak more wit
In conversation, than those Poets writ.
Then, one of these is, consequently, true;
That what this Poet writes comes short of you,
And imitates you ill, (which most he fears)
Or else his Writing is not worse than theirs.
Yet, though you judge, (as sure the Critiques will)
That some before him writ with greater skill:
In this one Praise he has their Fame surpast,
To please an Age more Gallant than the last.