Epistle XLIV. On a Comedy called The Passionate Lovers

Though I ne'r saw this Play, nor e'r did know
The Author well, nor love with passion so,
To be a dame for Terence Comoedie,
But do suppose who e'r the lover be,
That's really such as the Poet writ,
He'ld have less love, if he had had more wit.
Yet as th' old Topers, when their drinking's gone,
Do love to sit, and see the work go on:
And as old men when their performance fails,
Can clap their wings with telling smutty tales:
So though we've lost the life of playes the stage,
If we can be Remembrancers to th' age.
And now and then let glow a spark in print,
To tell the World there's fire still lodg'd i'th flint,
We may agen b' enlightned once and warm'd,
Men can't be civil till they be inform'd.
Walk wisely on: Time's changeable, and what
Was once thrown down, is now again reacht at.
And we may see pleasure and honour crown
The Stage, when inconsistent Tubs kick'd down.