Prologue to the Rival Queens

How hard the fate is of the scribbling drudge, Who writes to all, when yet so few can judge! Wit, like religion, once divine was thought; And the dull crowd believ'd as they were taught: Now each fanatic fool presumes t' explain The text, and does the sacred writ profane; For, while your wits each other's fall pursue, The fops usurp the power belongs to you. You think y' are challeng'd in each new play-bill, And here you come for trial of your skill; Where, fencer-like, you one another hurt, While with your wounds you make the rabble sport. Others there are, that have the brutal will To murder a poor play, but want the skill. They love to fight, but seldom have the wit To spy the place where they may thrust and hit; And therefore, like some bully of the town, Ne'er stand to draw, but knock the poet down. With these, like hogs in gardens, it succeeds; They root up all, and know not flowers from weeds. As for you, sparks, that hither come each day, To act your own, and not to mind our play; Rehearse your usual follies to the pit, And with loud nonsense drown the stage's wit; Talk of your cloaths, your last debauches tell, And witty bargains to each other sell; Glout on the silly she, who, for your sake, Can vanity and noise for love mistake; Till the coquette, sung in the next lampoon, Is by her jealous friends sent out of town. For, in this duelling, intriguing age, The love you make is like the war you wage, Y' are still prevented ere you come t' engage. But 'tis not to such trifling foes as you, The mighty Alexander deigns to sue; The Persians of the pit he does despise, But to the men of sense for aid he flies; On their experienc'd arms he now depends, Nor fears he odds, if they but prove his friends: For as he once a little handful chose, The numerous armies of the world t' oppose; So, back'd by you, who understand the rules, He hopes to rout the mighty host of fools!