What northern hive pour’d out these foes to wit? 
Whence came these Goths to overrun the pit? 
How would you blush the shameful birth to hear
Of those you so ignobly stoop to fear;
For, ill to them, long have I travell’d since,
Round all the circles of impertinence,
Search’d in the nest where every worm did lie
Before it grew a city butterfly;
I’m sure I found them other kind of things
Than those with backs of silk and golden wings;
A search, no doubt, as curious and as wise
As virtuosoes’ in dissecting flies: 
For, could you think? the fiercest foes you dread,
And court in prologues, all are country bred;
Bred in my scene, and for the poet’s sins
Adjourn’d from tops and grammar to the inns;
Those beds of dung, where schoolboys sprout up beaux
Far sooner than the nobler mushroom grows: 
These are the lords of the poetic schools,
Who preach the saucy pedantry of rules;
Those powers the critics, who may boast the odds
O’er Nile, with all its wilderness of gods;
Nor could the nations kneel to viler shapes,
Which worshipp’d cats, and sacrificed to apes;
And can you think the wise forbear to laugh
At the warm zeal that breeds this golden calf? 
   Haply you judge these lines severely writ
Against the proud usurpers of the pit;
Stay while I tell my story, short, and true;
To draw conclusions shall be left to you;
Nor need I ramble far to force a rule,
But lay the scene just here at Farnham[1] school. 
   Last year, a lad hence by his parents sent
With other cattle to the city went;
Where having cast his coat, and well pursued
The methods most in fashion to be lewd,
Return’d a finish’d spark this summer down,
Stock’d with the freshest gibberish of the town;
A jargon form’d from the lost language, wit,
Confounded in that Babel of the pit;
Form’d by diseased conceptions, weak and wild,
Sick lust of souls, and an abortive child;
Born between whores and fops, by lewd compacts,
Before the play, or else between the acts;
Nor wonder, if from such polluted minds
Should spring such short and transitory kinds,
Or crazy rules to make us wits by rote,
Last just as long as every cuckoo’s note: 
What bungling, rusty tools are used by fate! 
’Twas in an evil hour to urge my hate,
My hate, whose lash just Heaven has long decreed
Shall on a day make sin and folly bleed: 
When man’s ill genius to my presence sent
This wretch, to rouse my wrath, for ruin meant;
Who in his idiom vile, with Gray’s-Inn grace,
Squander’d his noisy talents to my face;
Named every player on his fingers’ ends,
Swore all the wits were his peculiar friends;
Talk’d with that saucy and familiar ease
Of Wycherly, and you, and Mr. Bayes:[2]
Said, how a late report your friends had vex’d,
Who heard you meant to write heroics next;
For, tragedy, he knew, would lose you quite,