As scriveners draw away the bankers' trade.
Howe'er, the poet's safe enough to day,
They cannot censure an unfinished play.
But, as when vizard-mask appears in pit,
Straight every man, who thinks himself a wit,
Perks up, and, managing his comb with grace,
With his white wig sets off his nut-brown face;
That done, bears up to th' prize, and views each limb,
To know her by her rigging and her trim;
Then, the whole noise of fops to wagers go,—