  To you, great judges in this writing age, The sons of wit, and patrons of the stage, With all those humble thoughts which still have swayed His pride, much doubting, trembling, and afraid Of what is to his want of merit due, And awed by every excellence in you, The author sends to beg you would be kind, And spare those many faults you needs must find. You to whom wit a common foe is grown, The thing ye scorn and publicly disown; Though now perhaps you're here for other ends, He swears to me, ye ought to be his friends: For he ne'er called ye yet insipid tools; Nor wrote one line to tell you ye were fools: But says of wit ye have so large a store, So very much, you never will have more. He ne'er with libel treated yet the town, The names of honest men bedaubed and shown; Nay, never once lampooned the harmless life Of suburb-virgin, or of city-wife. Satire's the effect of poetry's disease, Which, sick of a lewd age, she vents for ease, But now her only strife should be to please; Since of ill fate the baneful cloud's withdrawn, And happiness again begins to dawn; Since back with joy and triumph he is come, That always drove fears hence, ne'er brought them home. Oft has he ploughed the boisterous ocean o'er, Yet ne'er more welcome to the longing shore, Not when he brought home victories before. For then fresh laurels flourished on his brow, And he comes crowned with olive-branches now; Receive him! oh, receive him as his friends; Embrace the blessings which he recommends: Such quiet as your foes shall ne'er destroy; Then shake off fears, and clap your hands for joy. FOOTNOTES: |
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