Thofe Afkaparts, men big enough to throw
Charing Cross for a bar, men that do know
No token of worth, but Queens man, and fine
Living; barrels of beef, flaggons of wine.
I shook like a spied Spie-Preachers which are
Seas of Wit and Arts, you can, then dare,
Drown the fins of this place, but as for me
Which am but a fcant book, enough fhall be
To wash the stains away: Although I yet
(With Maccabees modefty) the known merit
Of
my
work leffen, yet some wife men fhall,
I hope, efteem my Writs Canonical,

NOTE.

A Giant famous in Romances. P.

Each man an Askapart, of strength to tofs
For Quoits, both Temple-bar and Charing-cross.
Scar'd at the grizly forms, I fweat, I fly,
And shake all o'er, like a discovered spy.

279

Courts are too much for wits so weak as mine: Charge them with Heaven's Artillery, bold Divine! From fuch alone the Great rebukes endure, Whofe Satire's facred, and whofe rage fecure : 'Tis mine to wash a few light ftains, but theirs To deluge fin, and drown a Court in tears. Howe'er what's now Apocrypha, my Wit, In time to come, may pass for holy writ.

285

#

EPILOGUE

TO THE

SATIRES,

In Two DIALOGUES.

Written in MDCCXXXVIII.