This Year has been Remarkable two ways,
For Blooming Poets, and for Blasted Plays.
We've been by much appearing Plenty mock'd,
At once both tantaliz'd, and over-stock'd.
Our Authors too, by their Success of late,
Begin to think third days are out of date.
What can the Cause be, that our Plays won't keep,
Unless they have a Rot some Years like Sheep?
For our parts, we confess we're quite asham'd
To read such Weekly-Bills of Poets damn'd.
Each Parish knows 'tis but a mournful Case
When Christnings fall, and Funerals increase,
Thus 'tis, and thus 'twill be when we are dead,
There will be Writers which will ne'er be read.
Why will you be such Wits, and write such Things?
You're willing to be Wasps, but want the stings.
Let not your Spleen provoke you to that height,
'Odslife you don't know what you do, Sirs, when you write.
You'll find that Pegasus has Tricks, when try'd,
Tho' you make nothing on't but up and ride;
Ladies and all, I'faith, now get astride.
Contriving Characters, and Scenes, and Plots,
Is grown as common now, as knitting Knots;
With the same ease, and negligence of thought,
The charming Play is writ, and Fringe is wrought.
Tho' this be frightful, yet we're more afraid,
When Ladies leave, that Beaux will take the Trade:
Thus far 'tis well enough, if here 'twou'd stop,
But shou'd they write, we must e'en shut up Shop.
How shall we make this Mode of Writing sink?
A Mode, said I? 'Tis a Disease, I think,
A stubborn Tetter that's not cur'd with Ink.
For still it spreads, 'till each th' infection takes,
And seizes ten for one that it forsakes.
Our Play to-day is sprung from none of these,
Nor should you Damn it, tho' it does not please,
Since born without the bounds of your four Seas.
For if you grant no Favour as 'tis new,
Yet as a Stranger, there is something due:
From Rome (to try its Fate) this Play was sent;
Start not at Rome , for there's no Popery meant;
Where e'er the Poet does his Dwelling chuse,
Yet still he knows his Country claims his Muse.
Hither an Offering his First-born he sends,
Whose good, or ill success, on you depends.
Yet he has hope some Kindness may be shown,
As due to greater Merit than his own,
And begs the Sire may for the Son atone.
There's his last Refuge, if the Play don't take,
Yet spare young Dryden for his Father's sake.