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Where ſold he Bargains, Whip-ſtitch, kiſs my Arſe,
Promis'd a Play, and dwindled to a Farce?
When did his Muſe from Fletcher Scenes purloin,
As thou whole Eth'ridge doſt transfuſe to thine?
But ſo transfus'd as Oyl on Waters flow;
His always floats above, thine ſinks below.
This is thy Province, this thy wond'rous Way,
New Humours to invent for each new Play:
This is that boaſted Byaſs of thy Mind,
By which one way, to Dullneſs, 'tis inclin'd.
Which makes thy Writings lean on one-ſide ſtill,
And in all Changes that way bends thy Will.
Nor let thy Mountain belly make pretence
Of Likeneſs; thine's a Tympany of Senſe.
A Tun of Man in thy large Bulk is writ,
But ſure thou'rt but a Kilderkin of Wit.
Like mine thy gentle Numbers feebly creep,
Thy Tragick Muſe gives ſmiles, thy Comick ſleep.
With whate'er Gall thou ſett'ſt thy ſelf to write,
Thy inoffenſive Satyrs never bite.
In thy fellonious Heart, though Venom lies,
It does but touch thy Iriſh Pen, and dies.
Thy Genius calls thee not to purchaſe Fame,
In keen Iambicks, but mild Anagram:
Leave writing Plays, and chuſe for thy Command
Some peaceful Province in Acroſtick Land.
There thou may'ſt Wings diſplay, and Altars raiſe,
And torture one poor word Ten thouſand ways.
Or if thou would'ſt thy diff'rent Talents ſuit,
Set thy own Songs, and ſing them to thy Lute.
| He ſaid, but his laſt Words were ſcarcely heard, | 
|
| For Bruce and Longvil had a Trap prepar'd, | 
|
| And down they ſent the yet declaiming Bard. | 
|
Sinking he left his Drugget Robe behind,
Born upwards by A ſubterranean Wind.
The Mantle fell to the young Prophet's part,
With double portion of his Father's Art.
