There to receive what Destiny doth contrive,
Either to perish, or be sav’d alive.
Good Fate protect thee from a Criticks power,
For If he comes, thou’rt gone in half an hour,
Stiff’d and blasted, ’tis their usual way,
To make that Night, which is as bright as Day.
For if they once but wring, and skrew their mouth,
Cock up their Hats, and set the point Du-South,
Armes all a kimbo, and with belly strut,
As if they had Parnassus in their gut: