A day of doom is this of your decree,
  Where even the best are but by mercy free: 
  A day, which none but Jonson durst have wish’d to see. 
  Here they, who long have known the useful stage, 10
  Come to be taught themselves to teach the age. 
  As your commissioners our poets go,
  To cultivate the virtue which you sow;
  In your Lycaeum first themselves refined,
  And delegated thence to human-kind. 
  But as ambassadors, when long from home,
  For new instructions to their princes come;
  So poets, who your precepts have forgot,
  Return, and beg they may be better taught: 
  Follies and faults elsewhere by them are shown, 20
  But by your manners they correct their own. 
  The illiterate writer, empiric-like, applies
  To minds diseased unsafe, chance remedies: 
  The learn’d in schools, where knowledge first began,
  Studies with care the anatomy of man;
  Sees virtue, vice, and passions in their cause,
  And fame from science, not from fortune, draws. 
  So Poetry, which is in Oxford made
  An art, in London only is a trade. 
  There haughty dunces, whose unlearned pen 30
  Could ne’er spell grammar, would be reading men. 
  Such build their poems the Lucretian way;
  So many huddled atoms make a play;
  And if they hit in order, by some chance,
  They call that nature, which is ignorance. 
  To such a fame let mere town wits aspire,
  And their gay nonsense their own cits admire. 
  Our poet, could he find forgiveness here,
  Would wish it rather than a plaudit there. 
  He owns no crown from those Praetorian bands, 40
  But knows that right is in the senate’s hands;
  Not impudent enough to hope your praise,
  Low at the Muses’ feet his wreath he lays,
  And, where he took it up, resigns his bays. 
  Kings make their poets whom themselves think fit,
  But ’tis your suffrage makes authentic wit.

* * * * *

XXXV.

EPILOGUE,

SPOKEN BY THE SAME.

  No poor Dutch peasant, wing’d with all his fear,
  Flies with more haste, when the French arms draw near,
  Than we with our poetic train come down,
  For refuge hither, from the infected town: 
  Heaven, for our sins, this summer has thought fit
  To visit us with all the plagues of wit. 
  A French troop first swept all things in its way;
  But those hot Monsieurs were too quick to stay: 
  Yet, to our cost, in that short time, we find
  They left their itch of novelty behind. 10
  The Italian Merry-Andrews took their place,
  And quite debauch’d the stage with lewd grimace: 
  Instead of wit and humours, your delight
  Was there to see two hobby-horses fight;