The rest to some faint meaning make pretence,
  But Shadwell never deviates into sense. 
  Some beams of wit on other souls may fall,
  Strike through, and make a lucid interval;
  But Shadwell’s genuine night admits no ray,
  His rising fogs prevail upon the day. 
  Besides, his goodly fabrick fills the eye,
  And seems design’d for thoughtless majesty: 
  Thoughtless as monarch oaks, that shade the plain
  And, spread in solemn state, supinely reign. 
  Heywood and Shirley were but types of thee,
  Thou last great prophet of tautology. 
  Even I, a dunce of more renown than they,
  Was sent before but to prepare thy way;
  And, coarsely clad in Norwich drugget, came
  To teach the nations in thy greater name. 
  My warbling lute, the lute I whilom strung,
  When to King John of Portugal I sung,
  Was but the prelude to that glorious day,
  When thou on silver Thames didst cut thy way,
  With well-tim’d oars before the royal barge. 
  Swell’d with the pride of thy celestial charge;
  And big with hymn, commander of an host,
  The like was ne’er in Epsom blankets tost. 
  Methinks I see the new Arion fail,
  The lute still trembling underneath thy nail. 
  At thy well-sharpened thumb, from shore to shore,
  The trebles squeak with fear, the basses roar: 
  Echoes from Pissing-Alley Shadwell call,
  And Shadwell they resound from Aston-Hall. 
  About thy boat the little fishes throng
  As at the morning toast, that floats along. 
  Sometimes, as prince of thy harmonious band,
  Thou wield’st thy papers in thy threshing hand. 
  St. Andre’s feet ne’er kept more equal time,
  Not ev’n the feet of thy own Psyche’s rime: 
  Though they in number as in sense excel;
  So just, so like tautology, they fell,
  That, pale with envy, Singleton forswore
  The lute and sword which he in triumph bore,
  And vow’d he ne’er would act Villerius more.” 
    Here stopt the good old sire, and wept for joy,
  In silent raptures of the hopeful boy. 
  All arguments, but most his plays, persuade,
  That for anointed dulness he was made. 
    Close to the walls which fair Augusta bind,
  (The fair Augusta much to fears inclin’d)
  An ancient fabric, rais’d t’ inform the sight
  There stood of yore, and Barbican it hight: 
  A watch-tower once; but now so fate ordains,
  Of all the pile an empty name remains: 
  From its old ruins brothel-houses rise,
  Scenes of lewd loves, and of polluted joys,
  Where their vast courts the mother-strumpets keep,
  And, undisturb’d by watch, in silence sleep. 
  Near these a nursery erects its head
  Where queens are form’d, and future heroes bred;
  Where unfledg’d actors learn to laugh and cry,
  Where infant punks their tender voices try,
  And little Maximins the gods defy. 
  Great Fletcher never treads in buskins