William Congreve

“ The husbandman in vain renews his toil To cultivate each year a hungry soil; And fondly hopes for rich and generous fruit, When what should feed the tree devours the root; Th' unladen boughs, he sees, bode certain dearth, Unless transplanted to more kindly earth. So the poor husbands of the stage, who found Their labours lost upon ungrateful ground, This last and only remedy have proved, And hope new fruit from ancient stocks removed. Well may they hope, when you so kindly aid, Well plant a soil which you so rich have made. ”

“ As Nature gave the world to man's first age, So from your bounty, we receive this stage; The freedom man was born to, you've restored, And to our world such plenty you afford, It seems like Eden, fruitful of its own accord. ”

“ Though satire scarce dares grin, 'tis grown so mild Or only shows its teeth, as if it smiled. As asses thistles, poets mumble wit, And dare not bite for fear of being bit: They hold their pens, as swords are held by fools, And are afraid to use their own edge-tools. ”