in which we do not doubt but they're discerning,
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 see fome Faces in the Pit,
Which must of Consequence be. Foes to Wit.
You who can fudge, to Sentence may proceed;
But tho' he cannet Write, let him be freed
At least from their contempt, who cannot Read.