Betterton, Betterton, thy Decorations,
And the Machines were well written we knew;
But all the Words were such stuff we want Patience,
And little better is Monsieur Grabeu.
D—— me says Underhill, I'm out two hundred,
Hoping that Rain-bows and Peacocks would do;
Who thought infallible Tom could have blunder'd,
A Plague upon him and Monsieur Grabeu.
Lane thou hast no Applause for thy Capers,
Tho' all without thee would make a Man spew;