His nimble Births have longer liv'd then theirs
That have, with strongest Labour, divers yeeres
Been sending forth [t]he issues of their Braines
Upon the_ Stage; _and shall to th'_ Stationers _gaines
Life after life take, till some After-age
Shall put down_ Printing, _as this doth the_ Stage;
_Which nothing now presents unto the Eye,
But in_ Dumb-shews _her own sad_ Tragedy.
_'Would there had been no sadder Works abroad,
Since her decay, acted in Fields of Blood._
_But to the Man againe, of whom we write,
The_ Writer _that made Writing his Delight,
Rather then Worke. He did not pumpe, nor drudge,
To beget_ Wit, _or manage it: nor trudge
To Wit-conventions with Note-booke, to gleane
Or steale some Jests to foist into a Scene:
He scorn'd those shifts. You that have known him, know
The common talke that from his Lips did flow,
And run at waste, did savour more of Wit,
Then any of his time, or since have writ,
(But few excepted) in the Stages way:
His_ Scenes _were_ Acts, _and every_ Act _a_ Play.
_I knew him in his strength; even then, when_ He
_That was the Master of his Art and Me
Most knowing_ Johnson (_proud to call him_ Sonne)
_In friendly Envy swore, He had out-done_
His very Selfe. _I knew him till he dyed;
And, at his dissolution, what a Tide
Of sorrow overwhelm'd the_ Stage; _which gave
Volleys of sighes to send him to his grave.
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