Prologue to "The Conquest of Granada", Part II

They who write ill, and they who ne'er durst write,
Turn critics, out of mere revenge and spite:
A playhouse gives 'em fame; and up there starts,
From a mean fifth-rate wit, a man of parts.
(So common faces on the stage appear;
We take 'em in, and they turn beauties here.)
Our author fears those critics as his fate;
And those he fears, by consequence, must hate,
For they the traffic of all wit invade,
As scriv'ners draw away the bankers' trade.
Howe'er, the poet 's safe enough to-day,
They cannot censure an unfinish'd play.
But, as when vizard-mask appears i' th' pit,
Straight every man who thinks himself a wit
Perks up, and, managing his comb with grace,
With his white wig sets off his nut-brown face;
Then, the whole noise of fops to wagers go:
To know her by her rigging and her trim;
Then, the whole noise of fops to wooers go:
Pox on her, 't must be she; and: "Damme, no!"
Just so, I prophesy, these wits to-day
Will blindly guess at our imperfect play;
With what new plots our Second Part is fill'd,
Who must be kept alive, and who be kill'd.
And as those vizard-masks maintain that fashion,
To soothe and tickle sweet imagination;
So our dull poet keeps you on with masking,
To make you think there 's something worth your asking.
But, when 't is shown, that which does now delight you
Will prove a dowdy, with a face to fright you.