Spoken by Mrs. Mountford.
OU'D Poets but forefee how Plays would take,
Whether to thank or blame their Audience moft:
But that late Knowledge does much Hazard coft,
'Till Dice are thrown, there's nothing won, nor loft.
So 'till the Thief has ftol'n, he cannot know
Whether he shall efcape the Law, or no.
But Poets run much greater Hazards far,
Than they who ftand their Trials at the Bar;
The Law provides a Curb for its own Fury,
And fuffers Fudges to direct the Jury.
But in this Court, what Diff'rence does appear!
For every one's both Judge and Jury here;
Nay, and what's worse, an Executioner.
All have a Right and Title to fome Part,
Each choofing that in which he has moft Art.
The dreadful Men of Learning all Confound,
Unless the Fable's good, and Moral found.
The Vizor-Masks, that are in Pit and Gallery,
Approve, or Damn the Repartee and Rallery.
The Lady Criticks, who are better read,
Inquire if Characters are nicely bred;
If the foft things are penn'd and spoke with Grace:
They Fudge of Action too, and Time, and Place;
In which we do not doubt but they're difcerning,
For that's a kind of Affignation Learning.
Beaus judge of Dress; the Witlings judge of Songs;
The Cuckoldom, of Ancient Right, to Cits belongs.
Thus poor Poets, the Favour are deny'd,
Even to make Exceptions, when they're Try'd.
'Tis hard that they must ev'ry one admit:
Methinks I fee fome Faces in the Pit,
Which muft of Confequence be Foes to Wit.
You who can Judge, to Sentence may proceed;
But tho' he cannot Write, let him be freed
At least from their Contempt, who cannot Read.