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Ou'd Poets but foresee how Plays would take, Then they cou'd tell what Epilogues to make; Whether to thank or blame their Audience most: で But that late Knowledge does much Hazard cost, 'Till Dice are thrown, there's nothing won, nor loft. So 'till the Thief has ftoll'n, he cannot know Whether he fhall e/cape the Law, or no. But Poets run much greater Hazards far, Than they who stand their Trials at the Barr; The Law provides a Curb for its own Fury, And fuffers fudges to direct the fury. 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 chufing that in which he has most 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 Raillery. The Lady Criticks who are better read, Enquire if Characters are nicely bred?

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If the foft things are penn'd and (poke 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.
Beans judge of Dre/s; 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 must of Confequence be Foes to Wit.
You who can fudge, to Sentence may proceed;
But tho' he cannot Write, let him be freed
At least from their Contempt, who cannot Read.
FINI S.

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