O rare Ben Jonson! What, a turn-coat grown!
Thou ne’er wert such till thou wert clad in stone.
When time thy coat, thy only coat, impairs,
Thou’lt find a patron in a hundred years:
Then let not this mistake disturb thy sprite,
Another age shall set thy buttons right.
_On Quin’s comparing Garrick to Whitfield, and complaining, that the
people were madding it after him._