The Critick. 1663

WHat Man is free from Censure, when
It fastens on a Souldiers Pen?
The best-arm'd parts its force may feel
When Estritch- like it bites on steel.
A Critick's Bolt's of such weak stuff,
It breaks, or turns again at Buff.
He that a Souldier thinks to bind
In Rules, must tye his hands behind.
They hate a Concord, Discords are
The only Rudiments of War.
They slight such Rules; and boast their fate
In breaking yours, or Priscian's Pate.
It is then vainer to reherse
To them the Niceties of Verse;
When they will swear before your Face
That Synelepha's are a Grace;
And how they serve to trim each line
With knots, and make the Muses fine;
That 'tis a pretty apish jarr,
And imitates the feats of War;
One word here runs on th' others point,
Another too has lost a Joynt;
A Synelepha's but a skar
In Verse, and those no Scandals are
With Souldiers, where they bring more grace
Than Moles to any Ladies face.
And if a Verse should prove too short
They'l have some lame Excuses for't;
To want a Foot is no more fault
Than for a Souldier 'tis to hault.