Fools, Which Each Man Meets In His Dish Each Day, Are Yet The Great Regalios Of A Play; In Which To Poets You But Just Appear, To Prize That Highest, Which Cost Them So Dear: Fops In The Town More Easily Will Pass; One Story Makes A Statutable Ass: But Such In Plays Must Be Much Thicker Sown, Like Yolks Of Eggs, A Dozen Beat To One. Observing Poets All Their Walks Invade, As Men Watch Woodcocks Gliding Through A Glade: And When They Have Enough For Comedy, They Stow Their Several Bodies In A Pie: The Poet'S But The Cook To Fashion It, For, Gallants, You Yourselves Have Found The Wit. To Bid You Welcome, Would Your Bounty Wrong; None Welcome Those Who Bring Their Cheer Along.