And, if my verses' feet stumble—you see my own are wanting.
}
Our young poet has brought a piece of work, }
In which though much of art there does not lurk, }
It may hold out three days—and that's as long as Cork.[403] }
But, for this play—(which till I have done, we show not)
What may be its fortune—by the Lord—I know not.
This I dare swear, no malice here is writ;
'Tis innocent of all things——even of wit.
He's no high-flyer——he makes no sky-rockets,