Classic Poem

S CORNE then their censure, who gave out thy wit
As long about a Comedy did sit,
As Elephants bring forth; and that thy blots
And mendings took more time than Fortune plots:
That such thy drought was, and so great thy thirst,
That all thy Plays were drawn at the Mermaid first.
That the Kings yearly Butt wrote, and his wine
Had more right than thou to thy Catiline .
...
He that writes well, writes quick, since the rules true,
Nothing is slowly done, that 's always new.
So when thy Fox had ten times Acted been,
Each day was first, but that twas cheaper seen.
And so thy Alchymist Played o'er and o'er,
Was new o' th' stage, when twas not at the door.
We, like the Actors, did repeat, the pit
The first time saw, the next conceived thy wit:
Which was cast in those forms, such rules, such arts,
That but to some not halfe thy Acts were parts:
Since of some silken judgements we may say
They fill'd a box two houres, but saw no Play.
So that the unlearned lost their money, and
Scholars saved onely, that could understand.
Thy Scene was free from monsters, no hard plot
Call'd down a God t' untie the unlikely knot.
The stage was still a stage, two entrances
Were not two parts of the world disjoyn'd by Seas.
Thine were land Tragedies, no Prince was found
To swim a whole Scene out, then o' th' stage drown'd,
Pitcht fields, and Red-Bull wars, still felt thy doom,
Thou laidst no sieges to the Musick Room;
Nor wouldst allow to thy best Comedies
Humors that should above the people rise:
Yet was thy language and thy stile so high
Thy Sock to the ankle, Buskin reachd to th' thigh:
And both so chast, so 'bove dramatick clean,
That we both safely saw and lived thy Scene.