And some th' Effects of all their pains we see, Is but to Mimick good Extemporie. Some write their Characters Gentile and fine, But then they do so Toyl for every line, iii That what to you does Easie seem, and Plain, Is the hard Issue of their labouring Brain. The whole (Bating their own Dull stuff i'th' Play) is stole: As Bees do suck from Flowers their Honey dew, So they rob others striving to please you.
Some write Coract coract indeed, but then Yet those who to others faults are so severe, Are not so perfect but themselves may Erre. Thus like a Learned Conclave Poets sit, Catholique Judges both of Sense and Wit, And Damn or Save, as they themselves think fit. So that the reason of the grand debate, Why Witt so oft is damn'd, when good Plays take, Is, that you Censure censure as you love, So amongst men there are Ridiculous Elves, Who Monkeys hate for being too like themselves.
Nor can those Doctors with more Malice sue (And powerful Purses) the discenting Few, Than those with an Insulting Pride, do raile At all who are not of their own Caball cabal: If a Young Poet hitt your Humour right, You judg him then out of Revenge and Spight. And Rabelsĭrops rabels were never more cry'd down By all the Learned Doctors of the Town, Than a New Play whose Author is unknown. WItts, like Physitians never can agree, When of a different Societie. Printed for John Amery, at the Peacock, against
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