A posie made of weeds instead of flowers;
Yet such have been presented to your noses,
And there are such, I fear, who thought ’em roses.
Would some of ’em were here, to see this night
What stuff it is in which they took delight.
Here, brisk, insipid rogues, for wit, let fall
Sometimes dull sense, but oft’ner none at all;
There, strutting heroes, with a grim-fac’d train,
Shalt brave the gods, in king Cambyses vein.
For (changing rules, of late, as if men writ