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 Where old he Bargains, Whip-titch, kis my Are,

Promis'd a Play, and dwindled to a Farce?

When did his Mue from Fletcher Scenes purloin,

As thou whole Eth'ridge dot transfue to thine?

But o transfus'd as Oyl on Waters flow;

His always floats above, thine inks below.

This is thy Province, this thy wond'rous Way,

New Humours to invent for each new Play:

This is that boated Byas of thy Mind,

By which one way, to Dullnes, 'tis inclin'd.

Which makes thy Writings lean on one-ide till,

And in all Changes that way bends thy Will.

Nor let thy Mountain belly make pretence

Of Likenes; thine's a Tympany of Sene.

A Tun of Man in thy large Bulk is writ,

But ure thou'rt but a Kilderkin of Wit.

Like mine thy gentle Numbers feebly creep,

Thy Tragick Mue gives miles, thy Comick leep.

With whate'er Gall thou ett't thy elf to write,

Thy inoffenive Satyrs never bite.

In thy fellonious Heart, though Venom lies,

It does but touch thy Irih Pen, and dies.

Thy Genius calls thee not to purchae Fame,

In keen Iambicks, but mild Anagram:

Leave writing Plays, and chue for thy Command

Some peaceful Province in Acrotick Land.

There thou may't Wings diplay, and Altars raie,

And torture one poor word Ten thouand ways.

Or if thou would't thy diff'rent Talents uit,

Set thy own Songs, and ing them to thy Lute. Sinking he left his Drugget Robe behind,

Born upwards by A ubterranean Wind.

The Mantle fell to the young Prophet's part,

With double portion of his Father's Art.

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