And is not this a wretched affectation, not to be contented with what fortune has done for them, and sit down quietly with their estates, but they must call their wits in question, and needlessly expose their nakedness to public view?  Not considering that they are not to expect the same approbation from sober men, which they have found from their flatterers after the third bottle.  If a little glittering in discourse has passed them on us for witty men, where was the necessity of undeceiving the world?  Would a man who has an ill title to an estate, but yet is in possession of it; would he bring it of his own accord, to be tried at Westminster?  We who write, if we want the talent, yet have the excuse that we do it for a poor subsistence; but what can be urged in their defence, who, not having the vocation of poverty to scribble, out of mere wantonness take pains to make themselves ridiculous?  Horace was certainly in the right, where he said, “That no man is satisfied with his own condition.”  A poet is not pleased, because he is not rich; and the rich are discontented, because the poets will not admit them of their number.  Thus the case is hard with writers:  If they succeed not, they must starve; and if they do, some malicious satire is prepared to level them, for daring to please without their leave.  But while they are so eager to destroy the fame of others, their ambition is manifest in their concernment; some poem of their own is to lie produced, and the slaves are to be laid flat with their faces on the ground, that the monarch may appear in the greater majesty[3].

Dionysius and Nero had the same longing, but with all their power they could never bring their business well about.  ’Tis true, they proclaimed themselves poets by sound of trumpet; and poets they were, upon pain of death to any man who durst call them otherwise.  The audience had a fine time on’t, you may imagine; they sat in a bodily fear, and looked as demurely as they could:  for it was a hanging matter to laugh unseasonably; and the tyrants were suspicious, as they had reason, that their subjects had them in the wind; so, every man, in his own defence, set as good a face upon the business as he could.  It was known before-hand that the monarchs were to be crowned laureats; but when the show was over, and an honest man was suffered to depart quietly, he took out his laughter which he had stifled; with a firm resolution never more to see an emperor’s play, though he had been ten years a making it.  In the mean time the true poets were they who made the best markets, for they had wit enough to yield the prize with a good grace, and not contend with him who had thirty legions[4].  They were sure to be rewarded, if they confessed themselves bad writers, and that was somewhat better than to be martyrs for their reputation.  Lucan’s example was enough to teach them manners; and after he was put to death, for overcoming Nero, the emperor carried it without dispute for the best poet in his dominions.  No