Classic Poem

Hither ye come, dislike, and so undo
The Players, and disgrace the Poet too;
But he protests against your Votes, and swears
He'll not be try'd by any, but his Peers;
He claims his Privilege, and says 'tis fit
Nothing should be the Judge of Wit, but Wit.
Now you will all be Wits, and be, I pray;
And you that discommend it, mend the Play;
'Tis the best Satisfaction he knows, then
His turn will come to laugh at you agen.
But, Gentlemen, if ye dislike the Play,
Pray make no words on't till the second Day,
Or third, be past. For we would have you know it,
The loss will fall on us, not on the Poet:
For he writes not for Mony, nor for Praise,
Nor to be call'd a Wit, nor to wear Bays:
Cares not for Frowns, or Smiles: so now you'll say,
Then (why the Devil) did he write a Play?
He says, 'twas then with him, as now with you
He did it when he had nothing else to do.