Classic Poem

SPOKE BY MR. MOUNTFORT

I THINK , or hope at least, the coast is clear;
That none but men of wit and sense are here;
That our Bear Garden friends are all away,
Who bounce with hands and feet, and cry: " Play, play, "
Who, to save coach hire, trudge along the street,
Then print our matted seats with dirty feet;
Who, while we speak, make love to orange-wenches,
And, between acts, stand strutting on the benches;
Where got a-cock-horse, making vile grimaces,
They to the boxes show their booby faces.
A merry-andrew such a mob will serve,
And treat 'em with such wit as they deserve.
Let 'em go people Ireland, where there's need
Of such new planters to repair the breed;
Or to Virginia or Jamaica steer,
But have a care of some French privateer;
For, if they should become the prize of battle,
They'll take 'em, black and white, for Irish cattle.
Arise, true judges, in your own defense,
Control those foplings, and declare for sense:
For should the fools prevail, they stop not there,
But make their next descent upon the fair.
Then rise, ye fair; for it concerns you most,
That fools no longer should your favors boast;
'Tis time you should renounce 'em, for we find
They plead a senseless claim to womankind:
Such squires are only fit for country towns,
To stink of ale, and dust a stand with clowns;
Who, to be chosen for the land's protectors,
Tope and get drunk before their wise electors.
Let not farce-lovers your weak choice upbraid,
But turn 'em over to the chambermaid;
Or, if they come to see our tragic scenes,
Instruct them what a Spartan hero means:
Teach 'em how manly passions ought to move,
For such as cannot think, can never love;
And, since they needs will judge the poet's art,
Point 'em with fescues to each shining part.
Our author hopes in you, but still in pain;
He fears your charms will be employ'd in vain.
You can make fools of wits, we find each hour;
But to make wits of fools, is past your power.