Depart hence all such Writers, and, before
Inferiour ones, thrust in, by many a score,
As formerly, before_ Tom Coryate,
_Whose Worke before his Praysers had the Fate
To perish: For the Witty Coppies tooke
Of his_ Encomiums _made themselves a_ Booke.
_Here's no such subject for you to out-doe,
Out-shine, out-live (though well you may doe too
In other Spheres:) For_ Fletchers _flourishing Bayes
Must never fade while_ Phoebus _weares his Rayes.
Therefore forbeare to presse upon him thus.
Why, what are you (cry some) that prate to us?
Doe not we know you for a flashy Meteor?
And stil'd (at best) the_ Muses _Serving-creature?_
_Doe you comptroll? Y'have had your Jere: Sirs, no;
But, in an humble manner, let you know
Old Serving-creatures oftentimes are fit
T' informe young Masters, as in Land, in Wit,
What they inherit; and how well their Dads
Left one, and wish'd the other to their Lads.
And from departed Poets I can guesse
Who has a greater share of Wit, who lesse.
'Way Foole, another says. I, let him raile,
And 'bout his own eares flourish his Wit-flayle,
Till with his Swingle he his Noddle breake;
While this of_ Fletcher _and his_ Works _I speake:
His_ Works (_says_ Momus) _nay, his_ Plays _you'd say:
Thou hast said right, for that to him was Play
Which was to others braines a toyle: with ease
He playd on Waves which were Their troubled Seas.
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