If we could hit on't, gallants, there are due
Certain respects from writers and from you:
Which, well observ'd, would celebrate this age,
And both support and vindicate the stage.
If there were only candour on your part,
And on the poets', judgment, fancy, art;
If they remember that their audience
Are persons of the most exalted sense;
And you consider well the just respect
Due to their poems, when they are correct;
Our two houses then may have the fate
To help to form the manners of the state:
For there are crimes arraign'd a' th' poets' bar,
Which cannot be redress'd at Westminster.
Our ancient bards their morals did dispense
In numbers, to insinuate the sense,
Knowing that harmony affects the soul,
And who our passions charm, our wills control.
This our well-meaning author had in view,
And, though but faintly executed, you
Indulg'd th' attempt with such benevolence,
That he has been uneasy ever since;
For though his vanity you gratified,
The obligation did provoke his pride.
But he has now compounded with ambition
For that more solid greatness, self-fruition;
And, going to embrace a civil death,
He's loth to die indebted to your breath.
Therefore he would be even w' you, but wants force;
The stream will rise no higher than the source.
And they, who treat such judges, should excel;
Here 'tis to do ill, to do only well.
He has, as other writers have, good-will,
And only wants (like those) nature and skill;
But, since he cannot reach the envied height,
H' has cast some grains in this to mend the weight;
And, being to part w' you, prays you to accept
This revived piece as legacy or debt.