Did but Ben. Johnson know how Follies rise Swell and look big, how Poets do despise The lawful charms of wit, and spend their days In bawdy Prologues and licentious Plays, He'd bid adieu to th' Elysian Field, Gay with the splendour that the Muses yield, And to the dusky world again repair, To suck the thicker blasts of earthly air, He'd leave his softer Rhymes, and would dispense A hoarser sound, he'd Satirist commence And try to lash the Ideots into Sence.
