Theywho write Ill, and they who ne’r durst write,
Turn Critiques, out of meer Revenge and Spight:
A Play-house gives’em Fame; and up there starts,
From a mean Fifth-rate Wit, a Man of Parts.
(So Common Faces on the Stage appear:
We take ‘em in; and they turn Beauties here.)
Our Authour fears those Critiques as his Fate:
And those he Fears, by consequence, must Hate.
For they the Trafficque of all Wit, invade;
As Scriv’ners draw away the Bankers Trade.
Howe’re, the Poet’s safe enough to day:
They cannot censure an unfinish’d Play.
But, as when Vizard Masque...