Gallants, by all good signs it does appear, That sixty-seven's a very damning year, For knaves abroad, and for ill poets here. Among the muses there's a general rot, The rhiming monsieur, and the Spanish plot: Defy or court, all's one, they go to pot. The ghosts of poets walk within this place, And haunt us actors wheresoe'er we pass, In visions bloodier than King Richard's was. For this poor wretch, he has not much to say, But quietly brings in his part o'th' play, And begs the favour to be damned to-day, He sends me only like a sheriff's man here, To let you know the malefactor's near, And that he means to die, en cavalier. For, if you should be gracious to his pen, The example will prove ill to other men, And you'll be troubled with them all again.
AN
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