Heaven save ye, Gallants; and this hopeful Age,

Y’ are welcome to the downfal of the Stage:

The Fools have laboured long in their Vocation;

And Vice (the Manufacture of the Nation)

O’er-stocks the Town so much, and thrives so well,

That Fops and Knaves grow Drugs, and will not sell.

In vain our Wares on Theaters are shown,

When each has a Plantation of his own.

His Cruse ne’er fails; for whatsoe’er he spends,

There’s still God’s plenty for himself and Friends.

Shou’d Men be rated by Poetick Rules,

Lord, what a Poll would there be rais’d from Fools!

Mean time poor Wit prohibited must lie,

As if ’twere made some French Commodity.

Fools you will have, and rais’d at vast expence;

And yet as soon as seen, they give offence.

Time was, when none would cry that Oaf was me,

But now you strive about your Pedigree:

Bauble and Cap no sooner are thrown down,

But there’s a Muss of more than half the Town.

Each one will challenge a Child’s part at least,

A sign the Family is well increas’d.

Of Foreign Cattle there’s no longer need,

When we’re supply’d so fast with English Breed,

Well! Flourish, Countrymen; drink, swear and roar,

Let every free-born Subject keep his Whore;

And wandring in the Wilderness about,

At end of Forty Years not wear her out.

But when you see these Pictures, let none dare

To own beyond a Limb or single share:

For where the Punk is common, he’s a Sot,

Who needs will father what the Parish got.