Like hungry guests, a sitting audience looks; plays are like suppers; poets are the cooks. The founder's you: the table is the 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 pepperproof? 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.