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therefore easily drawn to despise what they know nothing of. But, my Lord, among all these mortifying Thoughts, it is still a Pleasure to the Muses, to think there are fome Men of too delicate Understandings to give into the Taftes of a depraved Age; Men that have not only the Power but the Will, to protect those Arts which they love, because they are Masters of them.
It would be very easy for me to distinguish one among those few, after the most advantageous Manner; but all Men of cominon Sense have concurred in doing it already, and there is no Need of a Panegyric.
I could be almost tempted to expoftulate with the rest of the World (for I am sure there is no Occafion to make an Apology to Your Lordship) in Defence of Poetry. I am far from thinking of a good Poet, as the Stoits did of their Wife-mán, that he was sufficient for every Thing, could be every Thing, and excel in every Thing, as he pleased; yet fure
be allowed to say, that that Brightness, Quickness, that Strength and Greatness of Thinking, which is required in any of the
nobler Kinds of Poetry, would raise a Man to an uncommon Distinction in any Profession or Business, that has a Relation to good Sense and Understanding. One modern Instance can at least be given, where the same Genius that shone in Poetry, was found equal to the first Employments of the State ; and where the same Man, who by his Virtue and Wifdom was highly useful to, and instrumental in the Safety and Happiness of his native Country, had been equally ornamental to it in his Wit.
This is what I could not help saying, for the Honor of an Art which has been formerly the Favorite of the greatest Men. Not that it wants a Recommendation to Your Lordship, who have always been a constant and generous Protector of it. This indeed would be much more properly said to the World, and when I. have told them what Men have equally adorned it, and been adorned by it, I might not unfitly apply to them, what Horace said to the Pifo's,
Ne forté Pudori
For my own inconsiderable Pretensions to Verse, I shall, I confess, think better- even of them, than I have ever yet done, if they. shall afford me the Honor to be always thought,
Spoken by Mr. BETTERTON.
INCE to your fam'd Fore-Fathers quite contrary, What Art, what Method, mall the Poet find, To bit the Taste of each fantastic Mind? Legions of Joys your wand'ring Fancies lead, Like Sunimer Flies, which in the Shambles breed; Each year they fwarm anew, and to the last succeed. Time was, when Fools by Fellowship were known; But now they ftray; and in this populous Town Each Coxcomb has a Folly of his own. Some dress, fome dance, some play; not to forget Your Piquet Parties, and your dear Basset. Some preise, some rail, fome bow, and some make Faces; Bear Countty Squires hunt Foxes, poux Court, Places. The City ico fills up the various Scene, It here Fouls lay Wagers, and where wise Men win. One rails at Cælia for a late Mischance; One grumbles, and cries up the Pow'r of France. This Man talks Politics, and that takes Pills; One cures dus ook, and one the Nation's Ills. Now Fidling, and the Charms of Sing-Song, win ye; Harmonious Peg, and warbling Valentini. As to your Drinking---but, for That, we spare it, Nor with your other vile Delights compare it, There's something more than Sound, there's Sense in Claret. Meanwhile neglected Verse, in long Disgrace, Amongst your many Pleasures finds no Place; The virtuous Laws of Common-sense forfavearing, You damn us like packt Juries, without bearing.
Each juny Whipster here, is Wit enough,
same Flame, by different Ways expreft,