voice. 10
  When our fop gallants, or our city folly,
  Clap over-loud, it makes us melancholy: 
  We doubt that scene which does their wonder raise,
  And, for their ignorance, contemn their praise. 
  Judge then, if we who act, and they who write,
  Should not be proud of giving you delight. 
  London likes grossly; but this nicer pit
  Examines, fathoms all the depths of wit;
  The ready finger lays on every blot;
  Knows what should justly please, and what should not. 20
  Nature herself lies open to your view;
  You judge by her, what draught of her is true,
  Where outlines false, and colours seem too faint,
  Where bunglers daub, and where true poets paint. 
  But by the sacred genius of this place,
  By every Muse, by each domestic grace,
  Be kind to wit, which but endeavours well,
  And, where you judge, presumes not to excel. 
  Our poets hither for adoption come,
  As nations sued to be made free of Rome:  30
  Not in the suffragating tribes to stand,
  But in your utmost, last, provincial band. 
  If his ambition may those hopes pursue,
  Who with religion loves your arts and you,
  Oxford to him a dearer name shall be,
  Than his own mother university. 
  Thebes did his green, unknowing youth engage;
  He chooses Athens in his riper age.

* * * * *

XXXIX.

PROLOGUE TO “ALBION AND ALBANIUS.”

  Full twenty years and more, our labouring stage
  Has lost on this incorrigible age: 
  Our poets, the John Ketches of the nation,
  Have seem’d to lash ye, even to excoriation: 
  But still no sign remains; which plainly notes,
  You bore like heroes, or you bribed like Oates. 
  What can we do, when mimicking a fop,
  Like beating nut-trees, makes a larger crop? 
  Faith, we’ll e’en spare our pains! and, to content you,
  Will fairly leave you what your Maker meant you. 10
  Satire was once your physic, wit your food: 
  One nourish’d not, and t’other drew no blood: 
  We now prescribe, like doctors in despair,
  The diet your weak appetites can bear. 
  Since hearty beef and mutton will not do,
  Here’s julep-dance, ptisan of song and show: 
  Give you strong sense, the liquor is too heady: 
  You’re come to farce,—­that’s asses’ milk,—­already. 
  Some hopeful youths there are, of callow wit,
  Who one day may be men, if Heaven think fit:  20
  Sound may serve such, ere they to sense are grown,
  Like leading-strings till they can walk alone. 
  But yet, to keep our friends in countenance, know,
  The wise Italians first invented show: 
  Thence into France the noble pageant pass’d: 
  ’Tis England’s credit to be cozen’d last. 
  Freedom and zeal have choused you o’er and o’er: 
  Pray give us leave to bubble you once more;
  You never were so cheaply fool’d before: