Second Prologue to "Secret Love; or, The Maiden Queen"

I had forgot one half, I do protest,
And now am sent again to speak the rest.
He bows to every great and noble wit;
But to the little hectors of the pit
Our poet 's sturdy, and will not submit.
He 'll be beforehand with 'em, and not stay
To see each peevish critic stab his play:
Each puny censor, who, his skill to boast,
Is cheaply witty on the poet's cost.
No critic's verdict should of right stand good;
They are excepted all, as men of blood;
And the same law should shield him from their fury
Which has excluded butchers from a jury.
You 'd all be wits —
But writing 's tedious, and that way may fail;
The most compendious method is to rail;
Which you so like, you think yourselves ill us'd
When in smart prologues you are not abus'd.
A civil prologue is approved by no man;
You hate it as you do a civil woman:
Your fancy 's pall'd, and liberally you pay
To have it quicken'd, ere you see a play;
Just as old sinners, worn from their delight,
Give money to be whipp'd to appetite.
But what a pox keep I so much ado
To save our poet? He is one of you;
A brother judgment, and, as I hear say,
A cursed critic as e'er damn'd a play.
Good salvage gentlemen, your own kind spare;
He is, like you, a very wolf or bear.
Yet think not he 'll your ancient rights invade,
Or stop the course of your free damning trade;
For he, he vows, at no friend's play can sit,
But he must needs find fault to shew his wit.
Then, for his sake, ne'er stint your own delight;
Throw boldly, for he sets to all that write:
With such he ventures on an even lay,
For they bring ready money into play.
Those who write not, and yet all writers nick,
Are bankrupt gamesters, for they damn on tick.