Hither, thro' all the Quarters of the Sky,
Fresh Rooks in Flocks from ev'ry Nation hye,
To us, the Cullies of the Globe, they fly;
French, Spaniards, Switzers; This Man dines on Fire
And swallows Brimstone to your Heart's Desire;
Another, Handless, Footless, Half a Man,
Does, Wou'd you think it? what no Whole one can,
A Spaniard next, taught an Italian Frown,
Boldly declares he'll stare all Europe down:
His tortured Muscles pleas'd our English Fools;


[Footnote: In the rival House, Lincoln's-Inn-Fields Theatre, Rich was
bringing out Pantomimes, which, by the fertility of his invention, the
excellency of his own performance, and the introduction of foreign
performers, drew nightly crowded houses--hence the allusion.]

Why wou'd the Sot engage with English Bulls?
Our English Bulls are Hereticks uncivil,
They'd toss the Grand Inquisitor, the Devil:
'Twas stupidly contrived of Don Grimace,
To hope to fright 'em with an ugly Face.
And yet, tho' these Exotick Monsters please,
We must with humble Gratitude confess,
To you alone 'tis due, that in this Age,
Good Sense still triumphs on the British Stage:
Shakespear beholds with Joy his Sons inherit
His good old Plays, with good old Bess's Spirit.
Be wise and merry, while you keep that Tether;
Nonsense and Slavery must die together.