Sir Patient Fancy
The Amorous Prince
The Widow Ranter
The Younger Brother; Or, The Amorous Jilt
tient Poets writ, For your Applause of Nature, Sense and Wit; But, like good Tradesmen, what's in fashion vent, And cozen you, to give ye all content. True Comedy, writ even in Dryden's Style, Will hardly raise your Humours to a Smile. Long did his Sovereign Muse the Scepter sway, And long with Joy you did true Homage pay: But now, like happy States, luxurious grown, The Monarch Wit unjustly you dethrone, And a Tyrannick Commonwealth prefer, Where each small Wit starts up and claims his share; And all those Laurels are in pieces torn, Which did e'er while one sacred Head adorn. Nay, even the Women now pretend to reign; Defend us from a Poet Joan again! That Congregation's in a hopeful way To Heaven, where the Lay-Sisters teach and pray. Oh the great Blessing of a little Wit! I've seen an elevated Poet sit, And hear the Audience laugh and clap, yet say, Gad after all, 'tis a damn'd silly Play: He unconcern'd, cries only--Is it so? No matter, these unwitty things will do, When your fine fustia
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