"Like hungry guests, a sitting audience looks: Plays are like suppers; poets are the cooks. The founder's you: the table is this place: The carvers we: the prologue is the grace. Each act, a course, each scene, a different dish, Though we're in Lent. I doubt you're still for flesh. Satire's the sauce, high-season'd, sharp and rough. Kind masks and beaux, I hope you're pepper-proof? Wit is the wine; but 'tis so scarce the true Poets, like vintners, balderdash and brew. Your surly scenes, where rant and bloodshed join. Are butcher's meat, a battle's sirloin: Your scenes of love, so flowing, soft and chaste, Are water-gruel without salt or taste."