My Obedience to your desire so happily concentring with my Inclination to this Subject, has in less than a fortnight's space produc'd what here you see. To you I need not make any Apology for its Artless Habit, who very well know my want of years, and a necessary Experience in the Ages humour; nor can you reasonably expect any extraordinary strokes from one whose thoughts are divided between so many various Afflictions; since Ovid himself, when Condemn'd to Banishment, was forc'd to resign that Spirit of Poetry, which animated all his Works, besides that of his De Tristibus. Besides, I must desire your Patience to observe, that (the Verse I use being a kind of Doggrel) it is but Natural that now and then it should run harsh and rugged; nor do I believe I have done amiss by forcing my self sometimes to be so very plain and familiar. As for the Rhyme and Measure, though perhaps they may not always answer the strictest Law, yet I do not think it worth the while to make any excuse for that, being faults so inconsiderable, that they are seldom reflected on, but by the meanest sort of Criticks, who want judgment to discern the Intrigues of Humour and Invention, which are the Principal Ingredients of a Poem, and which I must needs confess are here extreamly deficient: For as this little Poem was written extempore, so it presumes to kiss your hand in its Native unpolish'd shape, not having the least thought or word of it Corrected; for to Morrow being the time we design to take Shipping, I had not so much leisure as to Transcribe it.
I must Confess, it seems unnatural, that one who pretends to the Title of a Poet, should endeavour, as I have done, to disparage his own Profession. However, the Poets of this Age, whom it most concerns, I hope will not take it unkindly of me, since doing thus, I only follow the Example they have given me; for in that short time of my Residence in London, among all the Poets I was in Company with, I heard little else besides their Complaints, and unmerciful damnings both of the Times and one another. Neither have I seen a Modern Play but either began or ended in the same Tune. Some few of which I have, for Example-sake, here presumed to quote.
In the Prologue to Aurenzebe.
The Clergy thrives, and the Litigious Bar,
Dull Heroes fatten by the Spoils of War.
All Southern Vices (Heav'n be prais'd) are here,
But Wit's a Luxury you count too dear.
In the Epilogue to the Libertine.
S Death! What a Devil would you have us do?}
Each take a Prison, and there humbly sue, }
Angling for single Money in a Shoe? }
In the Epilogue to Monsieur Rogooe.
I Am a Poet, and I'll prove it plain,
Both by my empty Purse, and empty Brain.
I've other Reasons to confirm it too;
I've great, and self-conceits of all I do.
As for my Play, I Pawn'd it to some Cit,
At least six Months before my Play was writ.
But when the third day comes, away I run,
Knowing that then in sholes come all my Duns.
If these things make me not a proper Poet,
He that has better Title, let him shew it.
In the Prologue to Theodosius; Or the Force of Love.
On Poets only no kind Star e're smil'd,
Curst Fate has damn'd 'em every Mothers Child.
Therefore he warns his Brothers of the Stage
To write no more to an ingrateful Age.
Think what penurious Masters you have serv'd;
Tasso ran mad, and Noble Spencer starv'd.
Turn then, who e're thou art, that canst Write well,
Thy ink to Gall, and in Lampoons excell.
Forswear all Honesty, traduce the Great,
Grow Impudent, and rail against the State;
Bursting with Spleen, abroad thy Pasquils send,
And choose some Libel-spreader for thy Friend.
The Wit and Want of Timon point thy Mind,
And for thy Satyr-subject chuse Mankind.