TO Praise your Healing Art would be in vain;
The Health you give, prevents the Poet's Pen.'
Sufficiently confirm'd is your Renown,
And I but fill the Chorus of the Town.
That let me wave, and only now Admire,
The dazling Rays of your Poetick Fire:
Which its diffusive Virtue does dispense,
In flowing Verse, and elevated Sense.
The Town, which long has swallow'd foolish Verse,
Which Poetasters ev'ry where rehearse;
Will mend their Judgment now, refine their Taste,
And gather up th' Applause they threw in waste.
The Play-house shan't Encourage false Sublime,
Abortive Thoughts, with Decoration-Rhime.
The Satyr of Vile Scribblers shall appear
On none, except upon themselves severe:
While yours Contemns the Gall of Vulgar Spight;
And when you seem to Smile the most, you Bite.
Tho. Cheek.