Alcaic

Come leave the loathéd stage,
And the more loathsome age,
Where pride and impudence in faction knit
Usurp the chair of wit,
Indicting and arraigning, every day,
Something they call a play.
Let their fastidious, vain
Commission of the brain
Run on, and rage, sweat, censure, and condemn:
They were not made for thee, less thou for them.

Say that thou pour’st ’em wheat,
And they would acorns eat;
‘Twere simple fury, still thyself to waste
On such as have no taste;