| |
| THO’ 1 Actors cannot much of Learning boast, | |
| Of all who want it, we admire it most: | |
| We love the Praises of a learned Pit, | |
| As we remotely are ally’d to Wit. | |
| We speak our Poet’s Wit, and trade in Ore, | 5 |
| Like those who touch upon the Golden Shore; | |
| Betwixt our Judges can distinction make, | |
| Discern how much and why our Poems take; | |
| Mark if the Fools, or Men of Sense, rejoice; | |
| Whether th’ Applause be only Sound or Voice. | 10 |
| When our Fop Gallants, or our City Folly, | |
| Clap over-loud, it makes us melancholy: | |
| We doubt that Scene which does their wonder raise, | |
| And for their Ignorance contemn their Praise. | |
| Judge then, if we who act and they who write | 15 |
| Shou’d not be proud of giving you delight. | |
| London likes grosly; but this nicer Pit | |
| Examines, fathoms, all the Depths of Wit; | |
| The ready Finger lays on every Blot; | |
| Knows what shou’d justly please, and what shou’d not. | 20 |
| Nature her self lyes open to your view, | |
| You judge by her what draught of her is true, | |
| Where Out-lines false, and Colours seem too faint, | |
| Where Bunglers dawb, and where true Poets Paint. | |
| But by the sacred Genius of this Place, | 25 |
| By every Muse, by each Domestick Grace, | |
| Be kind to Wit, which but endeavours well, | |
| And, where you judge, presumes not to excel. | |
| Our Poets hither for Adoption come, | |
| As Nations su’d to be made free of Rome: | 30 |
| Not in the suffragating Tribes to stand, | |
| But in your utmost, last, Provincial Band. | |
| If his Ambition may those Hopes pursue, | |
| Who with Religion loves your Arts and you, | |
| Oxford to him a dearer Name shall be, | 35 |
| Than his own Mother University. | |
| Thebes did his green unknowing Youth ingage, | |
| He chuses Athens in his riper Age. | |
