html.skin-theme-clientpref-night @media(prefers-color-scheme:dark){html.skin-theme-clientpref-os }When Strife disturbs, or Sloth Corrupts an Age,
Keen Satyr is the Business of the Stage.
When the Plain-Dealer writ, he lash'd those Crimes
Which then infested most———The Modish Times:
But now, when Faction sleeps and Sloth is fled,
And all our Youth in Active Fields are bred;
When thro' Great Britain's fair extensive Round,
The Trumps of Fame, the Notes of Union sound;
When Anna's Scepter points the Laws their Course,
And Her Example gives Her Precepts Force:
There scarce is room for Satyr, all our Lays
Must be, or Songs of Triumph, or of Praise:
But as in Grounds best cultivated, Tares
And Poppies rise among the Golden Ears;
Our ProductS so, fit for the Field or School,
Must mix with Nature's Favourite Plant———A Fool:
A Weed that has to twenty Summer's ran,
Shoots up in Stalk, and Vegetates to Man.
Simpling our Author goes from Field to Field,
And culls such Fools, as many Diversion yield;
And, Thanks to Nature, there's no want of those,
For Rain or Shine, the thriving Coxcomb grows.
Follies, to Night we shew, ne'er lash'd before,
Yet, such as Nature shews you every Hour;
Nor can the Picture's give a Just Offence,
For Fools are made for Jests to Men of Sense.