Classic Poem

Were you but half so wise as y' are severe,
Our youthful poet should not need to fear:
To his green years your censures you would suit,
Not blast the blossom, but expect the fruit.
The sex that best does pleasure understand,
Will always choose to err on t'other hand.
They check not him that's awkward in delight,
But clap the young rogue's cheek, and set him right.
Thus hearten'd well and flesh'd upon his prey,
The youth may prove a man another day.
Your Ben and Fletcher, in their first young flight,
Did no Volpone , no Arbaces write;
But hopp'd about, and short excursions made
From bough to bough, as if they were afraid,
And each were guilty of some Slighted Maid .
Shakespeare's own Muse her Pericles first bore;
The Prince of Tyre was elder than the Moor:
'Tis miracle to see a first good play;
All hawthorns do not bloom on Christmasday.
A slender poet must have time to grow,
And spread and burnish as his brothers do.
Who still looks lean, sure with some pox is curst;
But no man can be Falstaff-fat at first.
Then damn not, but indulge his stew'd essays,
Encourage him, and bloat him up with praise,
That he may get more bulk before he dies:
He's not yet fed enough for sacrifice.
Perhaps, if now your grace you will not grudge,
He may grow up to write, and you to judge.

For your own sakes, instruct him when he's out;
You'll find him mend his work at every bout.
When some young lusty thief is passing by,
How many of your tender kind will cry:
" A proper fellow, pity he should die!
He might be sav'd and thank us for our pains:
There's such a stock of love within his veins. "
These arguments the women may persuade,
But move not you, the brothers of the trade;
Who, scattering your infection thro' the pit,
With aching hearts and empty purses sit,
To take your dear five shillings' worth of wit.
The praise you give him in your kindest mood
Comes dribbling from you, just like drops of blood;
And then you clap so civilly, for fear
The loudness might offend your neighbor's ear,
That we suspect your gloves are lin'd within,
For silence sake, and cotton'd next the skin.
From these usurpers we appeal to you,
The only knowing, only judging few;
You, who in private have this play allow'd,
Ought to maintain your suffrage to the crowd.
The captive once submitted to your bands
You should protect from death by vulgar hands.