My part being small, I have had time to-day, To mark your various censures of our play. First, looking for a judgment or a wit, Like Jews, I saw them scattered through the pit; And where a knot of smilers lent an ear To one that talked, I knew the foe was there. The club of jests went round; he, who had none, Borrowed o'the next, and told it for his own. Among the rest, they kept a fearful stir, In whispering that he stole the Astrologer; And said, betwixt a French and English plot, He eased his half-tired muse, on pace and trot. Up starts a Monsieur, new come o'er, and warm In the French stoop, and the pull-back o'the arm; Morbleu, dit il, and cocks, I am a rogue, But he has quite spoiled the feigned Astrologue. 'Pox, says another, here's so great a stir With a son of a whore farce that's regular, A rule, where nothing must decorum shock! Damme, 'tis as dull, as dining by the clock. An evening! Why the devil should we be vext, Whether he gets the wench this night or next? When I heard this, I to the poet went,} Told him the house was full of discontent,} And asked him what excuse he could invent.} He neither swore or stormed, as poets do, But, most unlike an author, vowed 'twas true; Yet said, he used the French like enemies, And did not steal their plots, but made them prize. But should he all the pains and charges count Of taking them, the bill so high would mount, That, like prize-goods, which through the office come, He could have had them much more cheap at home. He still must write; and, banquier-like, each day Accept new bills, and he must break, or pay. When through his hands such sums must yearly run, You cannot think the stock is all his own. His haste his other errors might excuse, But there's no mercy for a guilty muse; For, like a mistress, she must stand or fall, And please you to a height, or not at all.