Like hungry guests, a sitting audience looks: Plays are like suppers; poets are the cooks. The founders you: the table is this place: The carvers we: the prologue is the grace. Each act a course; each scene, a different dish, Though were in Lent, I doubt youre still for flesh. Satires the sauce, high-seasoned, sharp, and rough. Kind masks and beaux, I hope youre pepper-proof? Wit is the wine; but tis so scarce the true Poets, like vintners, balderdash and brew. Your surly scenes, where rant and bloodshed join, Are butchers meat, a battles a sirlorn. Your scenes of love, so flowing, soft and chaste, Are water-gruel without salt or taste.