Note 50 — EPISTLE THE ELEVENTH.

From spawn of Will's, these wits of future tense, He now appeals to men of riper sense; And hopes to find some shelter from the wrath Of furious critics of implicit faith; Whose judgment always ebb, but zeal flows high, Who for these truths upon the church rely. Will's is the mother-church: From thence their creed, And as that censures, poets must succeed. Here the great patriarch of Parnassus sits, And grants his bulls to the subordinate wits. From this hot-bed with foplings we're opprest, That crowd the boxes, and the pit infest; Who their great master's falling spittle lick, And at the neighbouring playhouse judge on tick. Thus have I seen from some decaying oak, A numerous toad-stool brood his moisture suck, And as the reverend log his verdure sheds, The fungous offspring flourishes and spreads. Verses prefixed to "Sir Noisy Parrot," 4to, 1693.