SPOKEN BY MR WOODWARD,

IN THE CHARACTER OF A CRITIC, WITH A CATCALL IN HIS HAND.

A RE you all ready? here's your music, here
Author! sneak off; we'll tickle you, my dear.
The fellow stopt me in a hellish fright —
" Pray, Sir, (says he,) must I he damn'd to-night?
" Damn'd! surely friend. Don't hope for our compliance,
Zounds, Sir! a second play's downright defiance.
Though once, poor rogue! we pitied your condition;
Here's the true recipe for repetition."
" Well, Sir," save he, " e'en as you please; so then
I'll never trouble you with plays again."
" But hark ye, Poet! — Won't you though," says I?
" 'Pon honour' — Then we'll damn you, let me die.
Shan't we, my Bucks? let's take him at his word;
Damn him, or by my soul he'll write a third.
The man wants money, I suppose — but mind ye —
Tell him you've left your charity behind ye.
A pretty plea, his wants to our regard!
As if we Bloods had bowels for a Bard!
Besides, what men of spirit now-a-days
Come to give sober judgments of new plays?
It argues some good nature to be quiet —
Good nature! — ay — but then we lose a riot.
The scribbling fool may beg and make a fuss;
Tis death to him — what then? — 'tis sport to us.
Don't mind me though — for all my fun and jokes,
The Bard may find us Bloods good-natur'd folks,
No crabbed critics, foes to rising merit:
Write but with fire, and we'll applaud with spirit.
Our Author aims at no dishonest ends;
He knows no enemies, and boasts some friends:
He takes no methods down your throats to cram it,
So if you like it, save it; if not — damn it.