Would silence poets and reduce the stage;
The poet, rashly to get clear, retorts
On kings the scandal, and bespatters courts.
Both err: for, without mincing, to be plain,
The guilt's your own of every odious scene;
The present time still gives the stage its mode;
The vices, that you practise, we explode.
We hold the glass, and but reflect your shame,
Like Spartans, by exposing to reclaim.
The scribbler, pinched with hunger, writes to dine,