@3THESPIS@1, the first Professor of our Art, At Country Wakes, Sung Ballads in a Cart. To prove this true, if @3Latin@1 be no Trespass, @3Dicitur et Plaustris vexisse Poemata Thespis@1. But @3Eschylus@1, say @3Horace@1 in some Page, Was the first Mountebank e'ertrod the Stage; Yet @3Athens@1 never knew your learned Sport of tossing Poets in a @3Tennis-Court@1. But 'tis the Talent of our @3English@1 Nation Still to be plotting some new Reformation; And few years hence, if anarchy go on, @3Jack Presbyter@1 will here erect his Throne, Knock out a Tub with Preaching once a Day. And every Prayer be longer than a Play. Then all you Heathen Wits shall go to pot For disbelieving of a Popish plot: Nor should we want the Sentence to depart Ev'n in our first Original, a Cart. @3Occham, Dun Scotus@1, must though learn'd go down, As chief Supporters of the Triple Crown. And @3Aristotle@1 for destruction ripe: Some say he call'd the Soul an Organ-pipe, Which, by some little help of Derivation, Shall thence be call'd a Pipe of Inspiration. Your wiser Judgments further penetrate Who late found out one Tare amongst the Wheat, This is our Comfort: none e'er cried us down But who disturb'd both Bishop and a Crown. |