_Whose Wit is but a Tavern-Tympany,
The Shavings and the Chips of Poetry._

Indeed such Pedlars to the Muses, whose Verse runs like the Tap, and
whose invention ebbs and flows as the Barrel, deserve not the name of
Poets, and are justly rejected as the common Scriblers of the times:
but for such who fill'd with _Phebean_-fire, deserve to be crowned with
a wreath of Stars; for such brave Souls, the darlings of the _Delian_
Deity, for these to be scorn'd, contemn'd, and disregarded, must needs
be the fault of the times; I shall only give you one instance of a
renowned Poet, out of the same Author.

_On_ Butler_, who can think without just rage,
The glory and the scandal of the age,
Fair stood his hopes, when first he came to Town,
Met every where with welcoms of renown,
Courted, and lov'd by all, with wonder read,
And promises of Princely favour fed:
But what reward for all had he at last,
After a life in dull expectance pass'd?
The wretch at summing up his mispent days,
Found nothing left, but poverty, and praise:
Of all his gains by Verse he could not save
Enough to purchase Flannel, an

Thus you see though we have had some comparable to _Homer_ for Heroick
Poesie, and to _Euripides_ for Tragedy, yet have they died disregarded,
and nothing left of them, but that only once there were such Men and
Writings in being.