You coin as fast as groats at Birmingham:
Though 'tis no more like sense, in antient plays,
Than Rome's religion like St Peter's days.
In short, so swift your judgments turn and wind,
You cast our fleetest wits a mile behind.
'Twere well your judgments but in plays did range,
But e'en your follies and debauches change
With such a whirl, the poets of our age
Are tired, and cannot score them on the stage;
Unless each vice in short-hand they indict,