Sure There'S A Dearth Of Wit In This Dull Town, When Silly Plays So Savourily Go Down; As, When Clipt Money Passes, 'Tis A Sign A Nation Is Not Over-Stock'D With Coin. Happy Is He Who, In His Own Defence, Can Write Just Level To Your Humble Sense; Who Higher Than Your Pitch Can Never Go; And, Doubtless, He Must Creep, Who Writes Below. So Have I Seen, In Hall Of Knight, Or Lord, A Weak Arm Throw On A Long Shovel-Board; He Barely Lays His Piece, Bar Rubs And Knocks, Secured By Weakness Not To Reach The Box. A Feeble Poet Will His Business Do, Who, Straining All He Can, Comes Up To You: For, If You Like Yourselves, You Like Him Too. An Ape His Own Dear Image Will Embrace; An Ugly Beau Adores A Hatchet Face: So, Some Of You, On Pure Instinct Of Nature, Are Led, By Kind, To Admire Your Fellow-Creature. In Fear Of Which, Our House Has Sent This Day, To Insure Our New-Built Vessel, Call'D A Play; No Sooner Named, Than One Cries Out, These Stagers Come In Good Time, To Make More Work For Wagers. The Town Divides, If It Will Take Or No: The Courtiers Bet, The Cits, The Merchants Too; A Sign They Have But Little Else To Do. Bets, At The First, Were Fool-Traps; Where The Wise, Like Spiders, Lay In Ambush For The Flies: But Now They're Grown A Common Trade For All, And Actions By The New Book Rise And Fall; Wits, Cheats, And Fops, Are Free Of Wager-Hall. One Policy As Far As Lyons Carries; Another, Nearer Home, Sets Up For Paris. Our Bets, At Last, Would E'En To Rome Extend, But That The Pope Has Proved Our Trusty Friend. Indeed, It Were A Bargain Worth Our Money, Could We Insure Another Ottoboni. Among The Rest There Are A Sharping Set, That Pray For Us, And Yet Against Us Bet. Sure Heaven Itself Is At A Loss To Know If These Would Have Their Prayers Be Heard, Or No: For, In Great Stakes, We Piously Suppose, Men Pray But Very Faintly They May Lose. Leave Off These Wagers; For, In Conscience Speaking, The City Needs Not Your New Tricks For Breaking: And If You Gallants Lose, To All Appearing, You'll Want An Equipage For Volunteering; While Thus, No Spark Of Honour Left Within Ye, When You Should Draw The Sword, You Draw The Guinea.