BOLD is the man, and compos mentis, scarce-- Who, in these nicer times, dares write a Farce; A vulgar long-forgotten taste renew; All now are Comedies, five acts, or two. Authors have ever in a canting strain, Begg'd mercy for the bantling of their brain: That you, kind nurse, wou'd fondle 't on your lap, And rear it with applause, that best of pap-- Thus babes have in their cradles 'scap'd a blow, Tho' lame and rickety from top to toe: Our bard, with prologue-outworks has not fenc'd him, For all that I shall say, will make against him. Imprimis, this his piece--a Farce we call it-- Ergo, 'tis low--and ten to one you maul it! Wou'd you, because 'tis low, no quarter give? Black-guards, as well as Gentlemen, should live. 'Tis downright English too--nothing from France; Except some beasts, which treat you with a dance. With a Burletta too we shall present you-- And, not Italian--that will discontent you. Nay, what is worse--you'll see it, and must know it-- I, Thomas King, of King--street, am the poet: The murder's out--the murderer detected; May in one night, be tried, condemn'd, dissected. 'Tis said, for Scandal's tongue will never cease; That mischief's meant against our little piece: Let me look round, I'll tell you how the case is-- There's not one frown a single brow disgraces; I never saw a sweeter set of faces!