I THINK, or hope at least, the Coast is clear; That none but Men of Wit and Sense are here; That our Bear-Garden Friends are all away, Who bounce with Hands and Feet, and cry, Play, Play, Who, to save Coach-Hire, trudge along the Street, Then print our matted Seats with dirty Feet; Who, while we speak, make Love to Orange-Wenches, And between Acts stand strutting on the Benches; Where got a Cock-horse, making vile Grimaces, They to the Boxes show their Booby Faces. A Merry-Andrew such a Mob will serve, And treat 'em with such Wit as they deserve: Let 'em go people @3Ireland@1, where there's need Of such new Planters, to repair the Breed; Or to @3Virginia@1 or @3Jamaica@1 steer, But have a Care of some @3French@1 Privateer; For, if they should become the Prize of Battle, They'll take 'em, black and white, for @3Irish@1 Cattle. Arise, true Judges, in your own Defence, Controul those Foplings, and declare for Sense: For, should the Fools prevail, they stop not there, But make their next Descent upon the Fair. Then rise, ye Fair; for it concerns you most, That Fools no longer should your Favours boast: 'Tis time you should renounce 'em, for we find They plead a senseless Claim to Woman-kind: Such Squires are only fit for Country-Towns, To stink of Ale and dust a Stand with Clowns; Who, to be chosen for the Land's Protectors, Tope and get drunk before their wise Electors. Let not Farce-Lovers your weak Choice upbraid, But turn 'em over to the Chamber-maid. Or, if they come to see our Tragick Scenes, Instruct them what a @3Spartan@1 Heroe means: Teach 'em how manly Passions ought to move, For such as cannot Think can never Love; And, since they needs will judge the Poet's Art, Point 'em with Fescu's to each shining part. Our Author hopes in you; but still in Pain, He fears your Charms will be employ'd in vain. You can make Fools of Wits, we find each Hour; But to make Wits of Fools is past your Pow'r. |