The Works of Henry Fielding/J-n W-ts At A Play.

WHILE hisses, groans, cat-calls thro' the pit, Deplore the hapless poet's want of wit: J&mdash;n W&mdash;ts, from silence bursing in a rage, Cried, 'Men are mad who write in such an age.' 'Not so,' replied his friend, a sneering blade, 'The poet's only dull, the printer's mad.'