ABSTRACT
Authors are judg'd by strange capricious Rules, The Great Ones are thought mad, the Small Ones Fools: Yet sure the Best are most severely fated, For Fools are only laugh'd at, Wits are hated. Blockheads with Reason Men of Sense abhor; 5 But Fool 'gainst Fool, is barb'rous Civil War. Why on all Authors then should Criticks fall? Since some have writ, and shewn no Wit at all. Condemn a Play of theirs, and they evade it, Cry, damn not us, but damn the French who made it, 10 By running Goods, these graceless Owlers gain, Theirs are the Rules of France, the Plots of Spain: But Wit, like Wine, from happier Climates brought, Dash'd by these Rogues, turns English common Draught: They pall Moliere's and Lopez sprightly strain, 15 And teach dull Harlequins to grin in vain. How shall our Author hope a gentler Fate, Who dares most impudently-not translate. It had been civil in these ticklish Times, To fetch his Fools and Knaves from foreign Climes; 20 Spaniard and French abuse to the World's End, But spare old England, lest you hurt a Friend.
