John Oldham

“ So many now, and bad the Scriblers be,
'Tis scandal to be of the Company:
The foul Disease is so prevailing grown.
So much the Fashion of the Court and Town,
That scarce a Man well-bred in either's deem'd:
But who has kill'd, been often clapt, and oft has rhim'd:
The Fools are troubled with a Flux of Brains,
And on each Paper squirt their filthy sense:
A leash of Sonnets, and a dull Lampoon,
Set up an Author, who forthwith is grown
A Man of Parts, of Rhiming, and Renown:
Ev'n that vile Wretch, who in lewd Verse each year
Describes the Pageants, and my good Lord May'r ”

“ The Peer's well us'd, and comes off wond'rous cheap:
A Poet wou'd be dear, and out o' th' way,
Should he expect above a Coachman's pay:
For this will any dedicate and lye,
And dawb the gawdy Ass with Flattery? ”

“ What Sidney now to thy great Project kind?
' Bless me! how great his Genius! how each Line
' Is big with Sense! how glorious a Design
' Does thro' the whole and each proportion shine!
' How lofty all his Thoughts, and how inspir'd!
' Pity, such wond'rous Thoughts are not preferred:
Cries a gay wealthy Sot, who would not bail
For bare five Pounds the Author out of Jail,
Should he starve there, and rot ”