To say this Commedy pleas'd long a go,
Is not enough, to make it pass you now:
Yet gentlemen, your Ancestors had witt,
When few men censurd, and fewer writ.
And Johnson, of those few, the best chose this,
And the best modell of his master piece;
Subtle was got by our Albumazar,
That Alchæmist by this Astrologer.
Here he was fashion'd, and I should suppose,
He likes my fashion well, that wears my Cloaths.
But Ben made nobly his, what he did mould,
What was anothere's Lead, became his Gold;
Like an unrighteous Conquerer he raigns,
Yet rules that well, which he unjustly gains.
But this our age such Authors does afford,
As make whole Playes, and yet scarce write a word:
Who in this Anarchy of witt, rob all,
And what's their Plunder, their Possession call.
Who like bold Padders scorn by night to prey,
But Rob Sun-shine in the face of day;
Who scarce the common Ceremony use,
Of stand, Sir, and deliver up your Muse.
But knock the Poet down; and, with a grace,
Mount Pegasus before the owners Face.

(p. 87, lines 1-24)