THE PATENTEE: OR, Some Reflections in Verse on Mr. R—'s forgetting the Design of his Majesty's Bear-Garden at Hockly in the Hole, and Letting out the Theatre in Dorset-Garden to the same Use, on the Day when Mr. Dryden's Obsequies were performed; And both Playhouses forbore Acting in Honour to his Memory.  

'TWAS well performed, as it was well designed,  
And Lords and Commons the Procession joined;  
Horror in all its Pomp of Sorrows drew  
A Scene of Woe which Grief could hardly view,  
When through the Streets the mournful Chariots passed,  
And slowly bore what Fate destroyed in haste;  
As weeping Crowds officious in their Praise,  
Sprinkled with flowing Tears the withered Bays.   

Yet what avails it? That this Prince of Bards,  
Has all just Honours paid, and due Regards;  
That He in Chaucer's Grave most Nobly sleeps,  
And Fame around his Tomb her Vigils keeps:  
That Learned Garth his Sacred Worth has shown  
In Eloquence, not Second to his own,  
And, speaking what shall be with pleasure read,  
Revived those Virtues which he wept for Dead.  
That Hireling Players could their Acts refrain,  
And greedy Patentees forgo their Gain,  
To pay their cheap Acknowledgements of Woe,  
And own a Debt which they must ever owe;  
If on the solemn Day the Stage is lent  
For Slaves to tread, and Villains to frequent,  
As Noise, and Nonsense joined together sit,  
And desecrates the Hallowed Seat of WIT.   

Oh! Sacred Bard, from whose instructive Lays,  
Britannia conquers Italy in Praise,   

Who feelest the Raptures which thy Numbers taught,  
And hast no other Eyes but those of Thought;  
A while forget thy blessed Abode, and see  
That House profaned which owes its Fame to Thee.  
Within whose Walls thy coppy'd Heroes show,  
How much the Feigned could personate the True;  
Behold the Structure, and survey the Dome  
Which makes Augusta Rival ancient Rome,  
And shows the Glories of the British Isle,  
As Europe cannot boast a Nobler Pile;  
The best of Buildings, and the worst abused,  
A Stable should not be so meanly used.   

Ah! see the Place where thy Ventidius stood,  
Bending with Years, and most profusely good,  
Unmoved by Fate, and of unshaken Truth,  
His Counsels those of Age, His Courage that of Youth;  
Where Mourning Anthony contesting striven  
Which to relinquish, Honour, or his Love,  
As every Hearer's Sorrows took his Part,  
And truly wept for him who grieved with Art.   

Butchers and Bailiffs now the Boxes fill,  
Where Ladies Eyes were Instruments to kill,  
Where Kit-Cats sat, and Toasters would be seen,  
These swollen with Wit, and those with Letch'ry lean.   

But it's in vain that I Resentments show,  
The craving Muck-worm R— will have it so,  
And spite of Shame, and due Respect to Sense,  
Has turned it to a Slaughter-house for Pence.  
Departed Shade! For whom he Sorrows feigns,  
And sends his Mourning Coaches for his Gains,  
Down from above thy Sacred Spirit dart,  
And Influence, some Author with thy Art,  
To lash the griping Wretch, who dare debase,  
So fine a Structure, and so sweet a Place.   

May P— l leave him, nor V— n more  
Act a Coquet, or an imagined Wh—re.  
May W—ks no famed Sir Harry Wild-airs make,  
Diverting only for its Actor's sake,  
But Patentee left Weeping in the lurch,  
See Drury-Play-house thin as Parish-Church;  
Till it at last has neither Wh—re, not Cully,  
A just Reward for Dorset-Garden Folly;  
And is let out (to finish its disgrace)  
To sell the Meat that's killed at t'other Place.    

Printed in the Year, 1700.