stagers
  Come in good time, to make more work for wagers. 
  The town divides, if it will take or no: 
  The courtiers bet, the cits, the merchants too;
  A sign they have but little else to do. 
  Bets, at the first, were fool-traps; where the wise,
  Like spiders, lay in ambush for the flies: 
  But now they’re grown a common trade for all,
  And actions by the new book rise and fall; 30
  Wits, cheats, and fops, are free of wager-hall. 
  One policy as far as Lyons carries;
  Another, nearer home, sets up for Paris. 
  Our bets, at last, would e’en to Rome extend,
  But that the pope has proved our trusty friend. 
  Indeed, it were a bargain worth our money,
  Could we insure another Ottoboni. 
  Among the rest there are a sharping set,
  That pray for us, and yet against us bet. 
  Sure Heaven itself is at a loss to know 40
  If these would have their prayers be heard, or no: 
  For, in great stakes, we piously suppose,
  Men pray but very faintly they may lose. 
  Leave off these wagers; for, in conscience speaking,
  The city needs not your new tricks for breaking: 
  And if you gallants lose, to all appearing,
  You’ll want an equipage for volunteering;
  While thus, no spark of honour left within ye,
  When you should draw the sword, you draw the guinea.

* * * * *

XLVI.

PROLOGUE TO “ALBUMAZAR."[67]

  To say, this comedy pleased long ago,
  Is not enough to make it pass you now. 
  Yet, gentlemen, your ancestors had wit;
  When few men censured, and when fewer writ. 
  And Jonson, of those few the best, chose this
  As the best model of his masterpiece. 
  Subtle was got by our Albumazar,
  That Alchymist by this Astrologer;
  Here he was fashion’d, and we may suppose
  He liked the fashion well, who wore the clothes. 10
  But Ben made nobly his what he did mould;
  What was another’s lead becomes his gold: 
  Like an unrighteous conqueror he reigns,
  Yet rules that well which he unjustly gains. 
  By this our age such authors does afford,
  As make whole plays, and yet scarce write one word: 
  Who, in his anarchy of wit, rob all,
  And what’s their plunder, their possession call: 
  Who, like bold padders, scorn by night to prey,
  But rob by sunshine, in the face of day:  20
  Nay, scarce the common ceremony use
  Of, Stand, sir, and deliver up your Muse;
  But knock the Poet down, and, with a grace,
  Mount Pegasus before the owner’s face. 
  Faith, if you have such country Toms abroad,
  ’Tis time for all true men to leave that road. 
  Yet it were modest, could it but be said,