Classic Poem

A Priest discover'd as before.

After our Rites done to the King, we doe
Thinke some Devotion's to be paid to you.
But I could wish some Question hung up there,
That we by Genuine sounds might take your eare.
Or that our Scene in Bodley's Building lay,
And th'Metaphysickes were cast into a Play.
To please your Palates I could wish there were
A new Professour, Poet of the Chayre.
But as where th'Earth cannot ascend, we know
The Sun comes downe and cheeres her here below:
So we (the Stage being ayr'd now, and the Court
Not smelt) hope you'le descend unto our sport;
And thinke it no great trespasse, if we doe
Sinne o're our Trifle once againe to you.
'Tis not the same as then, that glorious Prease
Did passe both for the matter, and the dresse.
For where such Majesty was seene, we may
Say, the Spectators only made the Play.
Expect no new thing yet; tis without doubt
The former Face, only the Eyes put out.
But you adde new ones to it, being sent
As for our grace, so for our supplement.
We hope here's none inspir'd from late damn'd bookes,
Will sowre it into Tragedy with their lookes;
The little Ruffe, or Carelesse, without feare
May this securely see, securely beare.
There's no man shot at here, no Person's hit.
All being as free from danger, as from wit.
And such should still the first adventures be
Of him, who's but a Spy in Poetrie.
No Envy then or Faction feare we, where
All like your selves is innocent and cleare.
The Stage being private then, as none must sit,
And, like a Trap, lay wayte for sixpence wit;
So none must cry up Booty, or cry downe;
Such Mercenary Guise fits not the Gowne.
No Traffique then: Applause, or Hisse elsewhere
May passe as ware, 'tis only Ludgement here.