Poor Poet-Ape, that would be thought our chief,

Whose works are e'en the frippery of wit,

From brokage is become so bold a thief,

As we, the robb'd, leave rage, and pity it.

At first he made low shifts, would pick and glean,

Buy the reversion of old plays; now grown

To a little wealth, and credit in the scene,

He takes up all, makes each man's wit his own:

And, told of this, he slights it. Tut, such crimes

The sluggish gaping auditor devours;

He marks not whose 'twas first: and after-times

May judge it to be his, as well as ours.

Fool! as if half eyes will not know a fleece

From locks of wool, or shreds from the whole piece?