[Flecknoe is instructing Mac Flecknoe.]
Nor let false Friends seduce thy Mind to Fame,
By Arrogating Johnson's Hostile Name;
Let Father Flecknoe Fire thy Mind with Praise,
And Uncle Ogleby thy Envy raise;
Thou art my Blood where Johnson hath no Part,
What share have we in Nature, or in Art?
Where did his Wit or Learning fix a Brand?
Or rail at Arts he did not understand?
Where made he love in Prince Nycanders Vain?
Or swept the Dust in Psyches humble Strain?
Where sold he Bargains? Whip-stich, Kiss mine A - s,
Promis'd a Play, and dwindled to a Farce.
Where did his Muse from Fletchers Scenes purloin,
As thou whole Etheridge dost transfuse to thine?
But so transfus'd as Oyls on Water Flow,
His always Floats above, thine Sinks Below;
This is thy Promise, this thy wondrous Way,
New Humours to Invent for each New Play;
This is that Boasted Bias of the Mind,
By which one way to Dulness 'tis Inclin'cl;
Which makes thy Writings lame on one side still,
And in all Charges, that way bends thy will;
Nor let thy Mountain Belly make Pretence,
Of likeness, thine's a Tympany of Sence.
A Tun of Man in thy large Bulk is Writ,
But sure thou art a Kilderkin of Wit;
Like mine thy Gentle Numbers feebly creep,
Thy Tragick Muse gives Smiles, thy Comick sleep....

(ll. 171-98; pp. 12-13)