Whose Wit is but a Tavern-Tympany,
The Shavings and the Chips of Poetry.
Indeed such Pedlars to the Muses, whose Verse runs like the Tap, and whose invention ebbs and flows as the Barrel, deserve not the name of Poets, and are justly rejected as the common Scriblers of the times: but for such who fill'd with Phebean-fire, deserve to be crowned with a wreath of Stars; for such brave Souls, the darlings of the Delian Deity, for these to be scorn'd, contemn'd, and disregarded, must needs be the fault of the times; I shall only give you one instance of a renowned Poet, out of the same Author.
On Butler, who can think without just rage,
The glory and the scandal of the age,
Fair stood his hopes, when first he came to Town,
Met every where with welcoms of renown,
Courted, and lov'd by all, with wonder read,
And promises of Princely favour fed:
But what reward for all had he at last,