But our Great Turks in wit must reign alone
And ill can bear a Brother on the Throne.
Wit is like faith by such warm Fools profest
Who to be saved by one, must damn the rest.
Some who grow dull religious strait commence
And gain in morals what they lose in sence.
Wits starve as useless to a Common weal
While Fools have places purely for their Zea.
Now wits gain praise by copying other wits
As one Hog lives on what another sh—.
Wou’d you your writings to some Palates fit
Purged all you verses from the sin of wit
For authors now are so conceited grown
They praise no works but what are like their own.