To Mime

That not a pair of friends each other see,
But the first question is, When one saw thee?
That there's no journey set or thought upon,
To Brentford, Hackney, Bow, but thou mak'st one;
That scarce the town designeth any feast
To which thou'rt not a week bespoke a guest;
That still thou'rt made the supper's flag, the drum,
The very call, to make all others come:
Think'st thou, Mime, this is great? or that they strive
Whose noise shall keep thy miming most alive,
Whilst thou dost raise some player from the grave,
Out-dance the babion, or out-boast the brave
Or, mounted on a stool, thy face doth hit
On some new gesture, that's imputed wit?
O, run not proud of this. Yet take thy due.
Thou dost out-zany Cokely, Pod; nay, Gue:
And thine own Coryat too; but, — would'st thou see,
Men love thee not for this; they laugh at thee.