Classic Poem

I do not praise thy strains, in hope to see
My verses read before thy Comedy,
But for itself; that cunning I remit
To the new tribe, and mountebanks of wit,
That martyr ingenuity; I must
Be to my conscience and thy poem just,
Which, grac'd with comely action, did appear
The full delight of every eye and ear;
And, had that stage no other play, it might
Have made the critic blush at Cock-pit flight,
Who not discovering what pitch it flies,
His wit came down in pity to his eyes,
And lent him a discourse of cock and bull,
To make his other commendations full.
But let such Momi pass, and gain applause
Among the brood of actors, in whose cause
As champion he hath sweat; let their stale pride
Find some excuse in being magnified.
Thy Muse will live, and no adulterate pen
Shall wound her through the sides of common men;
Let 'em unkennel malice, yet thy praise
Shall mount secure, hell cannot blast thy bays.