html.skin-theme-clientpref-night @media(prefers-color-scheme:dark){html.skin-theme-clientpref-os }We might well call this short Mock-play of ours
A Posie made of Weeds instead of Flowers;
Yet such have been presented to your noses,
And there are such, I fear, who thought 'em Roses.
Would some of 'em were here, to see, this night,
What stuff it is in which they took delight.
Here, brisk insipid Blades, for wit, let fall
Sometimes dull sence; but oft'ner, none at all:
There, strutting Heroes, with a grim-fac'd train,
Shall brave the Gods, in King Cambyses vain.
For (changing Rules, of late, as if men writ
In spite of Reason, Nature, Art, and Wit)
Our Poets make us laugh at Tragœdy,
And with their Comedies they make us cry.
Now, Critiques, do your worst, that here are met;
For, like a Rook I have hedg'd in my Bet.
If you approve; I shall assume the state
Of those high-flyers whom I imitate:
And justly too; for I will shew you more
Than ever they vouchsaf'd to shew before:
I will both represent the feats they do,
And give you all their reasons for 'em too.
Some honour to me will from this arise.
But if, by my endeavours, you grow wise,
And what was once so prais'd you now despise;
Then I'l cry out, swell'd with Poetique rage,
'Tis I, John Lacy, have reform'd your Stage.