True Taste to me is by this touchstone known,

That's always best that's nearest to my own.

To shew that my pretensions are not vain,

My Father was a play'r in Drury-lane.

Pears and Pistachio-nuts my Mother sold,

He a Dramatick-poet, She a Scold.

His tragick muse could Countesses affright,

Her wit in boxes was my Lord's delight.

No mercenary Priest e'er join'd their hands,

Uncramp'd by wedlock's unpoetick bands.