Classic Poem

Though what our prologue said was sadly true,
Yet, Gentlemen, our homely house is new;
A charm that seldom fails with wicked you
A country lip may have the velvet touch;
Though she's no lady, you may think her such:
A strong imagination may do much.
But you, loud Sirs, who through your curls look big,
Critics in plume and white Vallancy wig,
Who lolling on our foremost benches sit,
And still charge first, the true forlorn of wit;
Whose favours, like the sun, warm where you roll,
Yet you, like him, have neither heat nor soul;
So may your hats your foretops never press,
Untouch'd your ribbons, sacred be your dress;
So may you slowly to old age advance,
And have the' excuse of youth for ignorance;
So may Fop-corner full of noise remain,
And drive far off the dull attentive train;
So may your midnight scowerings happy prove,
And morning batteries force your way to love;
So may not France your warlike hands recall,
But leave you by each others' swords to fall:
As you come here to ruffle vizard punk,
When sober rail; and roar when you are drunk.
But to the wits we can some merit plead,
And urge what by themselves has oft been said:
Our house relieves the ladies from the frights
Of ill-pav'd streets, and long dark winter-nights;
The Flanders horses from a cold bleak road,
Where bears in furs dare scarcely look abroad:
The audience from worn plays and fustian stuff
Of rhyme, more nauseous than three boys in buff.
Though in their house the poets' heads appear,
We hope we may presume their wits are here.
The best which they reserv'd they now will play;
For, like kind cuckolds, though we' have not the way
To please, we'll find you abler men who may.
If they should fail, for last recruits we breed
A troop of frisking Monsieurs to succeed;
You know the French sure cards in time of need.