VII.

To thee, blest saint! who doffed thy skin to make The Smithfield rabble leap from theirs with joy, We dedicate the pile――arise! awake!―― Knock down the Muses, wit and sense destroy Clear our new stage from reason’s dull alloy, Charm hobbling age, and tickle capering youth With cleaver, marrow-bone, and Tunbridge toy; While, vibrating in unbelieving tooth,[104] Harps twang in Drury’s walls, and make her boards a booth.