Classic Poem

As Charms are Nonsence, Nonsence seems a Charm,
Which hearers of all Judgment does disarm;
For Songs and Scenes, a double Audience bring,
And Doggrel takes, which Smiths in Sattin sing.
Now to Machines, and a dull Mask you run,
We find that Wit's the Monster you would shun,
And by my troth 'tis most discreetly done.
For since, with Vice and Folly, Wit is fed,
Through Mercy 'tis, most of you are not dead.
Players turn Puppets now at your desire,
In their Mouth's Nonsence, in their Tails a Wire,
They fly through Clouds of Clouts, and showers of Fire.
A kind of loosing Loadum is their Game,
Where the worst Writer has the greatest Fame.
To get vile Plays like theirs, shall be our care;
But of such awkward Actors we despair .
False taught at first —
Like Bowls ill byass'd, still the more they run,
They're further off; then when they first begun.
In Comedy their unweigh'd Action mark,
There's one is such a dear familiar spark,
He yawns, as if he were but half awake;
And fribling for free speaking, does mistake .
False accent and neglectful Action too
They have both so nigh good, yet neither true,
That both together, like an Ape's mock face
By near resembling Man, do Man disgrace.
Through pac'd ill Actors, may perhaps be cur'd,
Half Players like half Wits, can't be endur'd.
Yet these are they, who durst expose the Age
Of the great Wonder of our English Stage.
Whom Nature seem'd to form for your delight,
And bid him speak, as she bid Shakespeare write.
Those Blades indeed are Cripples in their Art
Mimmick his Foot, but not his speaking part.
Let them the Traytor or Volpone try,
Could they —
Rage like Cethegus , or like Cassius die,
They ne'er had sent to Paris for such Fancies,
As Monster's heads, and Merry Andrew 's Dances.
Wither'd perhaps, not perish'd we appear,
But they were blighted, and ne'er came to bear.
Th' old Poets dress'd your Mistress Wit before,
These draw you on with an old Painted Whore,
And sell like Bawds, patch'd Plays for Maids twice o'er.
Yet they may scorn our House and Actors too,
Since they have swell'd so high to hector you.
They cry, Pox o' these Covent Garden Men,
Dam 'em, not one of them, but keeps out Ten.
Were they once gone, we for those thundering Blades,
Should have an Audience of substantial Trades,
Who love our muzzled Boys, and tearing Fellows,
My Lord great Neptune, and great Nephew Eolus.
Oh how the merry Citizen's in love
With —
Psyche, the Goddess of each Field and Grove .
He cryes i'faith, methinks 'tis well enough,
But you roar out and cry, 'Tis all damn'd stuff.
So to their House the graver Fops repair,
While Men of Wit, find one another here.