SPOKEN BY MISS CROSS.1
Ladies, this play in too much haste was writ,
To be o'ercharged with either plot or wit;
'Twas got, conceived, and born in six weeks space,
And wit, you know, 's as slow in growth -- as grace.
I doubt 'twill prove our author bred too fast: For mark 'em well, who with the Muses marry,
Sure it can ne'er be ripened to your taste; 5
They rarely do conceive, but they miscarry.
'Tis the hard fate of those wh'are big with rhyme,
Of our late poets, Nature few has made; The greatest part -- are only so by trade.
Still to be brought to bed before their time. 10
Still want of something brings the scribbling fit; For want of money some of 'em have writ, And others do't, you see -- for want of wit. 15 Honor, they fancy, summons 'em to write, So out they lug2 in wresty3 Nature's spite, As some of you spruce beaux do -- when you fight. Yet let the ebb of wit be ne'er so low, Some glimpse of it a man may hope to show, 20 Upon a theme so ample -- as a beau. So, howsoe'er true courage may decay, Perhaps there's not one smock-face4 here today, But's bold as Cæsar -- to attack a play. Nay, what's yet more, with an undaunted face, 25 To do the thing with more heroic grace, 'Tis six to four y'attack the strongest place. You are such Hotspurs5 in this kind of venture, Where there's no breach, just there you needs must enter. But be advised. 30 E'en give the hero and the critic o'er,6 For Nature sent you on another score; She formed her beau for nothing but her whore.