How often have I seen the Taylor,
The Shoe-maker, and Milliner,
And ev'ry Fop that sells his Ware,
O're this poor Creature domineer?
And I can't choose but let you know it,
How a curst Broker met a Poet,
Walking through Smithfield on a time,
O're whom he swagger'd thus in Rhime.
Is this your Wit! the Devil take it!
For without question he did make it.
The truest Wit is Honesty,
And to get Coyn your Debts to pay.
Wit is an Ass, when Money's slow;
Nay, 'tis that makes the Ass to go.
Why? I am but a mean Trades-man,
And yet do more than any Poet can.
I walk the Streets, yet fear no Dun,
Nor in their Debts, nor from 'em run.
Nor yet for fear of being found out,
Do walk half a mile about.
Altho' you're in White-Fryers lurking,
I've certain Ingeneers a working:
And, Sir, unless you quickly pay me,
Expect a Visit from a Baylie.
This Language less dismaid the Poet,
Having been long accustom'd to it:
Howe're, he thought it not amiss
To give him these fair promises.
Sweet Sir! I vow I'm mighty sorry
You've so long tarry'd for your Mony:
But should you my late Suff'rings hear,
Pity would force you to forbear.
Howe're, as soon as th' Term begin }
I shall recruit my self agen; }
For my Play will be ready then.}
Last Night the Lord—read what I'd made on't;
And should I tell you what he said on't,
'Twould be immodest in the Author;
But you'll hear more of it hereafter.
How'ere, to tell you as a Friend,
He did it mightily commend.
And 'twixt me and you, he said, }
He did not question to perswade }
The King, and Court, to see it Play'd.}
And if it takes, (which I don't fear)
'Tmay bring an hundred pounds, or near.
And for your great Civility,
Sir, you're the first I intend to pay.
When this Doggrel Speech was ended,}
The Poet, having lowly bended, }
Took his leave, by me attended. }
We had not walk'd past half so far
As 'twixt Fleet-Bridge and Temple-Bar,
Ere my sad Brother was so kind,
As thus to let me know his mind.
Oh, wretched Man! what shall I do!
Or whither had I best to go!
Job happy was, compar'd to me,
A Prince in th' midst of's misery.
Oh Heavens! since all his Griefs I know,
Why have I not his Patience too?
Hells self less Torment does contain
Than is lodg'd in a Poet's brain;
Howe're we may hereafter fare,
I'm sure we meet Damnation here.
I'd rather be a Dog; or Cat,
The thing which next my self I hate.
A Snake, an Adder, or a Toad:
To these once Egypt's Dotage bow'd.
But me, the wretched'st thing e'r Born,
Ev'n these by instinct loath and scorn.
Then sighing, Oh, my Play! he cry'd;
My Play both Houses have deny'd.
They tell me, that their Summer-store
Will all this Winter last, or more:
Besides, that mine won't please the Times,
Being Tragedy, and writ in Rhimes.
Oh, I am ruin'd utterly!
What shall I do! My Play! My Play!
There's no one knows what pains I took,
Ere I stretch'd it, to a Book.
Nine Months my Muse labour'd to bring
Forth this Abortive, hapless thing:
And suffer'd more than can be told
Of Summers heat, and Winters cold.
I've walk'd from Morning until Noon,
'Twixt Lyon-Fields and Kentish-Town;
Study'ng my self hungry and dry,
I envy'd th' Beggers on the way.
Then being forc'd to jogg it home
Empty as a vacuum:
I'd no way to appease my Hostess,
But vow my Play finish'd almost is;
Then reading what I'd made of't o're,
She'ld trust me for one shilling more.
But since she heard it was refus'd,
None can guess how I've been us'd.
'Bout Eight o'th'Clock on Thursday Morning,
(My Angel then giving me warning)
I had scarce lock'd my Door, but th' Baily
Knock'd, saying, he'd a Letter for me:
From first to last, he knock'd an hour,
Ere I could get him to give o're;
But when he saw it was in vain,
The Rogue went swearing back again.
But from that time to Sunday Morning,
I kept the Fort, for all their Storming.
Then without fear away I went;
Thanks to the King and Parlement.
And now it is five days compleat,
Since I had any thing to eat:
Nor know I where to get Relief,
No, not one Meal to save my Life.
I've not a Neighbour, or Relation,
But when they see me, quit their Station,
And from me, as a Plague, they go,
I wish my Creditors would do so!
The Dev'l a rag of Clothes has Jack
'Sides these you see upon my back;
And they're so torn, I'm taken still
For a walking Paper-Mill.
My Hat is like a Funnel grown,
To vent the Vapours of my Crown.
M' Eternal Peruque does appear
Golden, as Apollo's Hair.
And the Moss which hides my Face
Is thicker, and as long as his.
My Breeches like th' Ship Argo seem,
Which is, and yet is not the same;
For 'tis so patch'd, you cannot call
One shred of 't the Original.
As for my Cloak, 'tis well enough.
Only 'tis out of Fashion now.
But I'm content my Rags 't does hide,
For this is an ill time for Pride.
My Stockings are worse rent and torn,
Than ever Poverty was drawn:
And round about more Stars appear }
Than Ursa major has in th' Sphere, }
Or any Constellation there. }
My Shoes made of thin Spanish Leather,
Do sigh, and sob this Rainy Weather:
And in dumb Language of their own,
Pity mine, 'cause their Souls are gone.
As for my Linnen, let 't alone, }
It needs not a Description; }
As I'm a Poet, I have none. }
My lac'd Crevat lies in Shoe-Lane,
Pawn'd for Tripe, and Chitterlin,
With an honest Mother there,
One Mistress Smith, a Victualler.
My Shirt lies Morgag'd in a Celler,
About the middle of Long-Acre,
With a Shee-Cook, call'd Goody Dutton,
For Porrage, Beans, and Chops of Mutton.
Oh that I had a wooden Leg!
Or but one Arm, then might I beg!
I'd Steal or Cheat, did I know how,
'Tis better hang than perish so.
I could not hear this piteous moan
Unmov'd, nor let him sigh alone.
But when I'd all the Comfort gave,
He could from Friendly Advice receive;
I lent him six-pence, which was half
Of the small Stock I had my self.
Then after many thanks, and vows,
Unto White-Fryers straight he goes:
Where Bread and Cheese he said he'ld buy;
Or fill himself with Curds and Whey.
You see what Malice Fate has shown }
To this poor Wretch, who once was known}
To be the gayest Spark in Town. }
One who would play at six-pence gleek,
And go to Creswel's once a week:
Who Din'd at Locket's ev'ry day,
And sate in th' Boxes at a Play.
Envy it self cannot dispraise
His Poems, nor some of his Plays.
Three of which just Applause did bear
In the Royal Theatre.
Lords and Knights desired to be
Made happy in his Company;
And did with a due Rev'rence mark
Him, as he walk'd the Streets or Park.
But this did in a moment cease,
'Twas but a sudden, short-liv'd blaze,
Like that which is from Meteors sent,
Which end their Shine when th' Fuel's spent.
Running in Debt, and living High,}
And the hissing of his last Play,}
Did bring him to this Misery. }
May all the Sons of Helicon } }
Take heed, this Fate prove not their own!}
For I've a shrewd suspicion! }
I've seen the briskest of our Crew
Walk peny-less, and hungry too,
In Temple-walks, 'bout Dinner-time,
Digesting his crude thoughts int' Rhime;
Where, if he meets with a Sir-fool,
With empty Head, and Pockets full,
Up to him straight he'll make, and cry,
Where does your Worship Dine to day?
I was this Morning bid by two; }
But Faith I don't much care to go,}
I'd rather take a bit with you. }
Then, stretching, swears he is not right,
Since being plaguy drunk last Night.
And's Company, you needs must know,
My Lord—Sir John—and God knows who.
But tho' the Gallant he attacks,
Not the least Invitation makes:
He must, he says, out of esteem,
Not that he's Hungry, wait on him.
Then as soon as Dinner's ended,
And his last Work read and commended,
(Which without Vanity, he says,
Is th' best he writ, his Master-piece.)
He whisp ring in his Cully's ear,
Makes his Necessity appear:
Tells him of his last-nights expence,
And how he's not recruited since.
Then begs his Pard'n, he must away, }
To get a Ticket for th' new Play, }
Acted at the Duke's House to day. }
I've sev'ral Coffee-Houses known }
By these unhappy Guests undone, }
For People, now adays, are grown }
So wise, they first of all peep in, }
And if a Poet there is seen, }
They presently down stairs agen. }
For who a Devil cares to sit
To be drawn by a Poet's wit?
Sir Am'rous can't make a Relation
Of his last-nights Assignation.
The Sycophant can't exercise
His Art, for these quick-sighted Spies:
Nor Fopling comb his Wigg, but they
Make it a Humour for a Play.
The Cheat, the Pick-pocket, and Bully,
(Who're the best Guests, and spend most Money)
Flie the loath'd House where these appear,
As if the Constable were there.
But there are some of Honour yet, }
Who're great pretenders unto Wit, }
And that they m'seem t' encourage it, }
Will have a Poet at their tail;
And whom to know that you mayn't fail,
Has an old-fashion thread-bare Coat,
Foul Linnen, Hat not worth a groat.
If it be Summer, Freeze he'l wear; }
In th' Winter Stuff, and that so bare, }
His Lice can scarce find Harbour there.}
Perhaps, he wears a Sword by's side,
To 'ts Hilt one yard of Ribband ty'd.
In fine, by all he meets, he's t'ane
To be th' Epitome of Long-Lane.
And when their Lordships walk before
To th' Tavern, or to see a Whore,
He's caution'd not to come too nigh,
Lest he disgrace the Company:
But b'hind like one new fluxt does crawl,
And lets each Foot-boy take the Wall.
But when he comes to th' place design'd,
Their Lordships use to seem more kind.
There he may swagger, swear, and lie,
And do any thing—but pay.
Then after a sufficient stay,
Borrows a Crown, and so good-by'e.
