Dare quit, upon your oathes,
The stagers, and the stage-wrights too (your peers),
Of larding your large ears
With their foul comic socks,
Wrought upon twenty blocks:
Which if they’re torn, and turn’d, and patch’d enough,
The gamesters share your guilt and you their stuff.
Leave things so prostitute,
And take the Alcæick lute,
Or thine own Horace, or Anacreon’s lyre;