At this mad Sessions, half condemn'd e'er try'd,
Some, in three Days, have been turn'd off, and dy'd,
In spight of Parties, their Attempts are vain,
For like false Prophets, they ne'er rise again.
Too late, when cast, your Favour one beseeches,
And Epilogues prove Execution Speeches.
Yet sure I spy no _Busie-Bodies_ here;
And one may pass, since they do ev'ry where.
Sowr Criticks, Time and Breath, and Censures waste,
And baulk your Pleasure to refine your Taste.
One busie Don ill-tim'd high Tenets Preaches,
Another yearly shows himself in Speeches.
Some snivling Cits, wou'd have a Peace for spight,
To starve those Warriours who so bravely fight.
Still of a Foe upon his Knees affraid;
Whose well-hang'd Troops want Money, Heart, and Bread.
Old Beaux, who none not ev'n themselves can please,
Are busie still; for nothing--but to teize
The Young, so busie to engage a Heart,
The Mischief done, are busie most to part.
Ungrateful Wretches, who still cross ones Will,
When they more kindly might be busie still!
One to a Husband, who ne'er dreamt of Horns,
Shows how dear Spouse, with Friend his Brows adorns.
Th' Officious Tell-tale Fool, (he shou'd repent it.)
Parts three kind Souls that liv'd at Peace contented,
Some with Law Quirks set _Houses_ by the Ears;
With Physick one what he wou'd heal impairs.
Like that dark Mob'd up Fry, that neighb'ring Curse,
Who to remove Love's Pain, bestow a worse.