Prologue design'd for a Play of mine

Of Poets living poorly oft you tell,
But you may wonder how they live so well:
How many vain Fops do there daily sit,
Trick't like my Ladies Monkey, in the Pit,
That wou'd be poorer if they liv'd by Wit?
Not that the Poets have so vast a store,
But they might, very well, dispence with more:
Of late, indeed, what e're they want in sense,
Is made up with Poetick Impudence;
No Trophies to the good or great they raise,
But Fool and Knave they over-whelm with praise.
They feed on Flattry, and it keeps 'em strong;
So Maggots get best Nutriment in Dung
These are the things our wretched Poets do,
Yet most of ye wou'd be thought Poets too.
There hardly was an Age e're known before,
Vertue was less in use and Verses more.
Courtier and Pesant equally possest,
Write, and 'tis hard to tell which writes the best;
For, when examin'd, we are sure to see
But little Reason and much Ribaldry:
Nay ev'n the Women of this Frantick Age
Think they're inspir'd with Poetick rage;
If any vain, lewd, loose-writ thing you see,
You may be sure the Author is a she.
The Lawyer, too, does versify amain,
But falls, by starts, to his own Trade again;
For Knavery, that Functions, fertile clime,
Is far more difficult to leave than rhime;
Once of that Tribe you can be just no more,
They're thorow tainted, rotten to the core.
The Flutt'ring Spark that has lov'd Chloris long,
As his last hope, attacks her with a Song,
And with ten whining lines does charm her more,
Than with ten thousand whining words before;
Songs will prevail, in spite of Vertue's rules,
For that vain Sex is still most kind to Fools:
All these pretend to Wit, but, still 'tis shown,
The way they strive to prove it, proves they've none.
Our Author by this rhiming Fiend possest,
Does put in for a Fool among the rest;
For Fools e're now (he says) have written Plays,
Nay more than that, Fools have had good third days;
He therefore begs, and he'l desire no more,
Shew him the Favour they had heretofore;
He'd fain be thought a Fool upon that score.