Classic Poem

Design'd to have been sent to a certain AUTHOR last Winter .

In Days of Old, when Nonsense was not Wit;
E'er Poems pleas'd, tho' not by Poets writ:
E'er Rules Dramatic out of Fashion grew;
Whilst Truth and Nature still were kept in View:
In those Days, Prologues were like Bills of Fare,
And did for Elegance to come, prepare.
For well-chose Dainties they prepar'd the Guest;
And, often, were, Themselves, a Thorough Feast.

Those Days are over — — All that I can say,
(Who am a Modern) is, That this same Play
Had ne'er been writ, but for the Vile South-Sea .
The Author bids me tell you, He was under
A dire Necessity to Write or Plunder:
And, upon Thought mature, he judg'd it fit
T'adjourn the Highway-man, and ply the Wit.

He says, The Pad doth oft, with Danger, fight
The Man, whom, safely, he to Death could writ
Who, in the Box , when robb'd, accounts it Sport
Though, on the Road, he'd kill, or hang you for

Faith! this seems clinching Reasoning, and true
In Pity, therefore, Gentlemen, should you,
Here (Two Nights hence) with Generous Intent
Let the poor Poet plunder, by Consent;
And, since he cocks no Pistol at your Breast,
Come, and Deliver, if you love a Jest;
Applaud or not, he swears, He's in no Pain;
His greatest Euge , is a little Gain;
Let him have this — then damn — you damn in vain.

As to the Characters, he here doth chuse,
He says, He can th' Originals produce:
Take up the Cap who will, he stands the Strife;
He drew his Manners from the very Life.

And now, observe some Good in ev'ry Evil;
(Devotion's often owing to the Devil)
Directors, too, are good, this same Bad Way;
The Poet's pillag'd — . The People have a PLAY.