POETA DE TRISTIBUS: OR, THE Poet's Complaint.  
A POEM.  
In Four CANTO'S.  Ovid de Trist. 
Parve, nec invideo, sine me Liber ibis in Urbem▪  
Hei mihi ● quò—  
LONDON, 〈◇〉 for Henry Faithorne and John Rersey, at the ●●●ose in St. Paul's Church-Yard. 1682.   

The Publisher's Epistle to the READER.  
Courteous Reader,  
THE following Poem was presented me about a year ago; and( as it appears by the Author's Epistle to me) was designed only for my Private Divertisement: But numerous Draughts being dispersed abroad, by the Unworthiness of a Gentleman I Trusted it withal, I was more easily persuaded to Publish the Original, to prevent the Inconveniencies of a Surreptitious Copy, which, without my Allowance, was designed for the Press.  
The Author being out of England, I would not venture to set his Name to it; nor have I presumed thus far, without extraordinary regret; not that I know any other Reason that enforces a concealment, besides that it was sent to me with such a Bond. I am sure no particular Person can pretend to any distaste; and satire on general Subjects was ever Allowable, Religion and Government only excepted.  
But I must Confess, that in the Third Part of this Poem, there were some Capital Letters which began the Names of certain Poets of this Age, but them I have so altered, lest any Offence should be given, that by them I am sure no Discovery can be made. I will no longer detain you from your better Divertisement in the following Poem; which, if you have any good Nature, you cannot choose but favour, especially if you carry along with you those several Circumstances which in the way will offer themselves to you in the Author's behalf.  
farewell.   

The Author's Epistle.  
SIR,  
MY Obedience to your desire so happily concentring with my Inclination to this Subject, has in less than a fortnight's space produced what here you see. To you I need not make any Apology for its Artless Habit, who very well know my want of years, and a necessary Experience in the Ages humour; nor can you reasonably expect any extraordinary stroke from one whose thoughts are divided between so many various Afflictions; since Ovid himself, when condemned to Banishment, was forced to resign that Spirit of Poetry, which animated all his Works, besides that of his De Tristibus. Besides, I must desire your Patience to observe, that( the Verse I use being a kind of Doggrel) it is but Natural that now and then it should run harsh and rugged; nor do I believe I have done amiss by forcing myself sometimes to be so very plain and familiar. As for the Rhyme and Measure, though perhaps they may not always answer the strictest Law▪ yet I do not think it worth the while to make any excuse for that, being faults so inconsiderable, that they are seldom reflected on, but by the meanest sort of critics, who want judgement to discern the Intrigues of Humour and Invention, which are the Principal Ingredients of a Poem, and which I must needs confess are here extremely deficient: For as this little Poem was written extempore, so it presumes to kiss your hand in its Native unpolished shape, not having the least thought or word of it Corrected; for to Morrow being the time we design to take Shipping, I had not so much leisure as to Transcribe it.  
I must Confess, it seems unnatural, that one who pretends to the Title of a Poet, should endeavour, as I have done, to disparaged his own Profession. However, the Poets of this Age, whom it most concerns, I hope will not take it unkindly of me, since doing thus, I only follow the Example they have given me; for in that short time of my Residence in London, among all the Poets I was in Company with, I heard little else besides their Complaints, and unmerciful damnings both of the Times and one another. Neither have I seen a Modern Play but either began or ended in the same Tune. Some few of which I have, for Example-sake, here presumed to quote.  

In the Prologue to Aurenzebe.  
THE Clergy thrives, and the Litigious Bar,  
Dull Heroes fatten by the Spoils of War.  
All Southern Vices( heaven be praised) are here,  
But wits a Luxury you count too dear.   

In the Epilogue to the Libertine.  
'SDeath! What a Devil would you have us do?  
Each take a Prison, and there humbly sue,  
Angling for single Money in a show?   

In the Epilogue to Monsieur Rogooe.  
I Am a Poet, and I'll prove it plain,  
B●th by my empty Purse, and empty Brain.  
I've other Reasons to confirm it too;  
I've great, and self-conceits of all I do.  
As for my Play, I pawned it to some Cit,  
At least six Months before my Play was writ.  
But when the third day comes, away I run,  
Knowing that then in shoals come all my Duns.  
If these things make me not a proper Poet,  
He that has better Title, let him show it.   

In the Prologue to Theodosius; Or the Force of Love.  
ON Poets only no kind Star e're smiled,  
cursed Fate has damned 'em every Mothers Child.  
Therefore he warns his Brothers of the Stage  
To writ no more to an ingrateful Age.  
Think what penurious Masters you have served;  
Tasso ran mad, and Noble Spencer starved.  
Turn then, who e're thou art, that canst writ well,  
Thy Ink to gull, and in Lampoons excel.  
Forswear all Honesty, traduce the Great,  
Grow Impudent, and rail against the State;  
Bursting with Spleen, abroad thy Pasquils sand,  
And choose some Libel-spreader for thy Friend.  
The Wit and Want of Timon point thy Mind,  
And for thy Satyr-subject choose Mankind.   

In the Prologue to the Unhappy Favourite; or the Earl of Essex.  
THE Merchant, joyful with th' hopes of Gain,  
Ventures his Life and Fortunes on the Main;  
But the poor Poet oft'ner does expose  
More than his Life, his Credit, for Applause.   

In the Epilogue to the same Play.  
LET those who call us Wicked, change their sense,  
For never Men lived more on Providence:  
Not Lott'ry Cavaliers are half so poor,  
Nor broken Cits, nor a Vacation Whore;  
Not Courts, nor Courtiers living on the Rents  
Of the three last ungiving Parliaments.  
So Wretched, that if Pharaoh could Divine,  
He might have spared his Dream of seven lean Kine,  
And changed the Vision for the Muses Nine.   

And a little after.  
'Tis not our want of Wit that keeps us poor,  
For then the Printer's Press would suffer more:  
Their Pamphleteers their Venom daily spit,  
They thrive by Treason, and we starve by Wit.   
Now I do not blame these Ingenuous Gentlemen for inveighing against the thing to which they owe their Ruin; nor were it to any purpose to endeavour to conceal a Truth so generally taken notice of: For who is Ignorant of this, that a Man, in all Professions, except that of Poetry, may with Honour advance a Livelihood? But that( though it may be sometimes found proper for the Divertisement of those few who have leisure to red it) was ever known to be most unprofitable to the Authors; for few or none have been Advanced by it, though many have been hindered by this Art of Versifying, from making their Fortune otherwise in the World. Yea, this Profession is grown so Vile and abject, that whereas others count it an Honour to be styled Physicians, Barristers, or the like; these are offended with the very Name of Poet: And that with good Reason too, since Poetry only glories in Disguising the Truth; for which cause it begins to be Banished even from theaters, to which alone it was Destinated; and Prose is now come in request, being preferred for its Gracefulness and Naturalness above it: By which means this Art is in danger to be confined to the Corners of Streets, to serve only for Songs and Ballads. Hence it was that Ovid was so severely Punished by his Father, to make him leave off this Art, which proved so unlucky to him, that he became of a Rich Roman Knight, a Miserable Exile among Barbarians. Hence Plato was pleased to Banish it out of his imaginary Common-Wealth. And Philip, the first Christian Emperour, denied them those Immunities which he granted to all others. Numerous Instances of this Nature offer themselves to my Pen, but I must take care not to stretch my Epistle too far, for fear you should Reflect on it, what was formerly said on Sir William D'avenant's Preface before his Gondibert, 
A Preface to no Book, a Porch to no House,  
Here is the Mountain, but where is the Mouse?  However, I must not neglect to desire this one Favour of you, that after you have taken the pains to peruse these undigested Lines, you would be pleased to bestow on them a Fu●eral Fire; or if you apprehended that Sentence to be too severe, I do most earnestly beg of you to keep them Secret to yourself, without showing them to your t●ustiest Friend, at least, with my Name to them. It were superfluous now to engage you not to conv●y them to the Censorious World through the Press, since that, and more was already by the precedent Caution implied; besides, the Opinion I have of your Candour, is better grounded, than to admit of any such jealousy.  
I will now only add my most hearty Thanks for all your Favours, particularly for the Piece of Gold I Received enclosed in your last Letter; and had some others of my Relations proved as kind to me as yourself, or had I in my own country met with encouragement any way suitable to my Endeavours, I had not in this Passion shaken hands with it. But now I am in hast to be gone, yet will for ever remain,  
Dearest Cousin! Your assured, Faithful Friend, and most Humble Servant. Dated at Dover the Tenth day of January, 1680 / 1.   

POETA DE TRISTIBUS: OR, THE Poets Complaint. A POEM.  

The First CANTO.  

SInce here I'm bandy'd up and down  
By the keen blows of Fortunes frown,  
whilst Art and Nature vainly strive  
To make th' unhappy Poet live;  
I'll fly such Native Plagues as these  
For Refuge, to the calmer Seas:  
And try if boding Stars dispense  
every where the same influence.  
climbs vary Constitutions, so  
Why may not they change Fortunes too?  
Through th' habitable World I'll go,  
And if that fails, I'll search for new.  
Wit somewhere has a happy Reign,  
Or Nature gives us Thoughts in vain.  
Tho' here her bounty she provides  
For every thing which breaths besides.   

The Dunce made bachelor of Art,  
Some Fustian Sermon learns by heart,  
Then Preaches before a Country Squire,  
Who his deep Learning does admire,  
And gives him sixscore pounds a year.  
But he must mary th' Chamber-Maid,  
Who is, fo●sooth, a Mistress made:  
So he goes on with a fair hope,  
And of his Pulpit makes a Shop.   

So Quacks as easily as they will,  
Can get Licenses to kill,  
whilst the hungry Poet may  
For an Imprimatur stay,  
Till h'has eaten up his Play.   

Yet since the Press has lately had  
Its Liberty, 'tis near as bad.  
For scarce a broken Shop-keeper,  
Or a cast Serving-man grown bare,  
But herds among our starved Crew,  
And falls a Writing Poems too.  
The Plot, the Jesuit, and the Pope  
Are now grown themes for every Fop.  
Who by such wretched, Ballad-ware,  
Makes Writing cheap, and Paper dear.   

See how the gaping Merchants range,  
Hunting their Chapmen on the Change,  
Whose various Voices frame a sound,  
Like Billows when their Ships are drowned,  
And in one hour more fat do sweat  
Than th' Poet in a year can get.  
Those worst of Atheists! who do hold  
There is no Deity but Gold!  
They hate the Poet 'cause he's poor,  
And only th' Golden Calf adore.  
Our Plays, they say, are wicked dear,  
Th' expense in Ballads will go far.  
Nay, I protest I've heard some say  
Plays are a kind of Popery.  
I'th' City-shops they're thought Profane,  
As were Minc'd-pies in Cromwel's Reign.  
Where, when for Dryden's Works I came,  
They vowed they never heard his Name.  
But they had Baxter's, if you please,  
And such-like precious things as these.  
Bless 'em from Plays; they'd rather go  
Unto a Conventicle, or so.   

The Stationer grows fat on th' gain,  
He sucks from the poor Poet's brain.  
He, and the Printer, who does know  
Nothing beyond the Cris-cros-row,  
Do still their Heads together join  
To cheat the Poet of his coin.  
whilst he, poor Drudge! must toil and sweat  
Honourable stabs to get;  
And is forced to sigh, and stay  
For the laurel till he's gray:  
And at last together come  
To his Honour, and his Tomb.  
Tho' when dead, his Friends may'nt raise  
Enough to gilled his funeral Bays.   

The Players, who scarce know to writ  
Their Names, or spell one word aright,  
Or red their Parts, unless writ fair  
In a large Roman Character,  
Call us their Slaves, who for their gain  
Must toil, and all their faults sustain.  
In gay Attire each day they shine;  
Eat well, and drink the Richest Wine,  
All fat and plump, except some few  
The French-man proved invet'rate to.  
Look how they strut it as they go!  
And in the streets make such a show,  
As if they'd there Act Princes too!  
While th' Poet sneaking all alone  
In some by-lane where he's unknown;  
No farther than his Pot can go,  
And has a Pipe to th' bargain too.   

I hardly a poor Lawyer know,  
Unless some who are Poets too.  
They thrive by Rapine and Revenge,  
And making Enemies of Friends:  
Feeding on others hopes and fears,  
On joint-tenants groans, and Widows tears.  
In short, the World itself; and all  
We Trade, and Art, and Science call,  
Are grand Impostures; false and vain,  
Invented but to bring in gain.   

Astronomy does our Faith engage,  
And with dark Notions cheats the Age:  
But take off its Disguise, you'll see  
It is as feigned as Poetry.  
Else let it for a certain show  
Whether this Globe has Wings or no,  
Or Ovid blame, who said, the Sun  
Did run away with phaethon.  
I cannot choose but laugh to think  
If these poor Moon-calves had no Drink  
But that same thinnish, bluish Whey  
pressed from green Cheese i'th' Milky-way;  
When Goddesses make the New Moon,  
How soon they'd throw their Cross-staves down!   

What is Geometry, I'd know,  
But a false Brat of Fancy too?  
If 'tis a Science, let it tell  
How far from hence the Stars do dwell;  
And due proportion give between  
A direct and a crooked Line.  
Yet while the Dotards sit at home,  
Each Line is tip't with Golden plum;  
And still we find that each Right-Angle  
Some Gain or other does entangle;  
As Tonnellers catch Partridge; so  
Geometricians, you must know,  
Although in other things but Asses,  
They eat, and drink, and sleep with Lasses  
Between the Legs of their Compasses.   

So th' Natural Philosopher  
'S perpetual Motion keeps a stir,  
But strait his Engines rest obtain,  
And all the Motion's in his brain;  
Except some easy hand, forsooth,  
That opens but to fill his mouth.   

empiric, which we so much adore,  
ne'er had a perfect Orator.  
And yet their mouths provide; I trow,  
As lame and crippled people's do,  
Who lye, because they cannot go.   

And what is logic, but a cheat?  
Nothing, or something worse than it.  
A delphic Sword, bends any way  
To make Truth yield to Sophistry,  
And bring home Gold from BARBARA.   

The lingering chemists blow their fire,  
Till their own Lamps of Life expire;  
And searcheth for th' enchanted ston,  
Till they themselves grow could as one;  
Which they would quickly do, but that  
'Tis written in the Book of Fate,  
The great work( much too great for one)  
Cannot be carried on alone,  
But asks more hands; and so another,  
That's Rich, helps his poor chemic Brother.   

Speak, dull Philosopher; what's all  
You, in mistake, do Science call?  
Since Socrates with much ado,  
learned only that he nothing knew.  
There's nothing unconfined and free,  
Except the Soul of Poetry,  
When it does on our Organs play.  
Throw all your mystic Books away,  
And study Natures Library:  
Mount up to Heaven's refulgent Throne,  
There by the labouring Muses drawn.  
First, pause a while, then writ, and all  
The Gods to Convocation call;  
Then with Imperious frowns survey  
Poor Mortals damned to treading day;  
And raising Piles, till pitying Fate  
Pulls the brick ruins on their pate.  
There laugh at Princes, who do groan  
Under the burden of a Crown:  
And condemn Riches, which we see  
Is but a Golden Slavery;  
We're Richer far in Poetry.  
But hold!—  
I 'm almost starved, as I'm a Sinner,  
prithee, Jack, Trust me for a Dinner.   

Poor Poet! what a wretch th'art grown?  
Cast to a Dungeon from a Throne!  
Thou who but now didst reach the Sky,  
Low as Despair art forced to lye:  
Those soaring thoughts thou didst admire,  
With thy poetic rage expire.  
'Twas but a Dream, and now I see  
Riddles untied to Fetter me.  
The Angels height procured their Thrall,  
But 'tis my lowness makes me Fall.  
Had Nature given me a Rich Mine,  
As other Fops I'd happy been;  
Nor had I been exposed thus,  
To make my plaints ridiculous.   

For Wit and Wealth such Rivals are,  
That they can't Reign in the same Sphere,  
But as when Kings each other thwart,  
Th' unhappy Subjects feel the smart:  
So those t' whom Nature has been kind,  
Must Fortunes Rage and Malice find.  
And till these Friends and Partners grow,  
Who can have Wit and Money too?  
But if the World hath such a Creature,  
He's Monstrous, and not made by Nature.  
Poets are chemists, who want skill  
To perfect Metals as they will;  
Yet Clothes, or Money, what you please,  
Be sure they'l turn to Sack with ease;  
Then with that Sack they can prepare  
Castles, nay, Kingdoms in the Air,  
And carve themselves whole Lordships there.  
But since they here so disagree  
About a paltry laurel three,  
I wonder what a Dev'l they do,  
When to these fancied Lands they go:  
But hold! they'l all be De'ties there,  
And every one will have his Sphere.  
For all the Gods of which we red,  
Were by th' Almighty Poets made:  
And they who did their God-heads make,  
May at their pleasures take 'em back.    

The Second CANTO.  

HOW often have I seen the tailor,  
The Shoe-maker, and Milliner,  
And every Fop that sells his Ware,  
o'er this poor Creature domineer?  
And I can't choose but let you know it,  
How a cursed Broker met a Poet,  
Walking through Smithfield on a time,  
o'er whom he swagger'd thus in rhyme.   

Is this your Wit! the Devil take it!  
For without question he did make it.  
The truest Wit is Honesty,  
And to get coin 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 whitefriars lurking,  
I've certain Ingen●ers a working:  
And, Sir, unless you quickly pay me,  
Expect a Visit from a Baylie.   

This Language less dismayed the Poet,  
Having been long accustomed to it:  
howe'er, he thought it not amiss  
To give him these fair promises.   

Sweet Sir! I vow I'm mighty sorry  
You've so long tarried for your money:  
But should you my late sufferings hear,  
Pity would force you to forbear.  
howe'er, as soon as th' Term begin  
I shall recruit myself again;  
For my Play will be ready then.  
Last Night the Lord— red 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 persuade  
The King, and Court, to see it played.  
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 walked 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, compared 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 lodged in a Poet's brain;  
howe'er we may hereafter fare,  
I'm sure we meet Damnation here.  
I'd rather be a Dog; or Cat,  
The thing which next myself I hate.  
A Snake, an Adder, or a Toad:  
To these once Egypt's Dotage bowed.  
But me, the wretched'st thing e'r Born,  
even these by instinct loathe and scorn.  
Then sighing, Oh, my Play! he cried;  
My Play both Houses have denied.  
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 rhymes.  
Oh, I am ruined utterly!  
What shall I do! My Play! My Play!  
There's no one knows what pains I took,  
Ere I stretched it to a Book.  
Nine Months my Muse laboured to bring  
Forth this Abortive, hapless thing:  
And suffered more than can be  told  
Of Summers heat, and Winters could.  
I've walked from Morning until Noon,  
'Twixt Lyon-Fields and Kentish-Town;  
Study'ng myself hungry and dry,  
I envied th' beggars on the way.  
Then being forced to jog it home  
Empty as a vacuum:  
I'd no way to appease my Hostess,  
But vow my Play finished almost is;  
Then reading what I'd made of't o'er,  
She'd trust me for one shilling more.  
But since she heard it was refused,  
None can guess how I've been used.  
about Eight o'th' Clock on Thursday Morning,  
( My Angel then giving me warning)  
I had scarce locked my Door, but th' bailie  
knocked, saying, he'd a Letter for me:  
From first to last, he knocked an hour,  
Ere I could get him to give o'er;  
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 complete,  
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 patched, 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 hid,  
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 mayor 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 linen, let 't alone,  
It needs not a Description;  
As I'm a Poet, I have none.   

My laced Crevat lies in Shoe-Lane,  
pawned for Tripe, and Chitterlin,  
With an honest Mother there,  
One Mistress Smith, a Victualler.   

My Shirt lies mortgaged in a cellar,  
About the middle of Long-Acre,  
With a Shee-Cook, called Goody Dutton,  
For porridge, Beans, and chaps 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  
unmoved, nor let him sigh alone.  
But when I'd all the Comfort gave,  
He could from Friendly Advice receive;  
I lent him sixpence, which was half  
Of the small Stock I had myself.  
Then after many thanks, and vows,  
Unto whitefriars strait he goes:  
Where Bread and Cheese he said he'd 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 sixpence gleek,  
And go to Creswel's once a week:  
Who dined at Locket's every day,  
And sate in th' Boxes at a Play.  
Envy itself 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 reverence mark  
Him, as he walked the Streets or Park.  
But this did in a moment cease,  
'Twas but a sudden, short-lived 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, about Dinner-time,  
Digesting his crude thoughts int' rhyme;  
Where, if he meets with a Sir-fool,  
With empty Head, and Pockets full,  
Up to him strait 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 red and commended,  
( Which without Vanity, he says,  
Is th' best he writ, his Master-piece.)  
He whispering in his Cully's ear,  
Makes his Necessity appear:  
Tells him of his last-nights expense,  
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 federal 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 again.  
For who a Devil cares to sit  
To be drawn by a Poet's wit?  
Sir amorous 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)  
fly the loathed 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 linen, Hat not worth a groat.  
If it be Summer, frieze 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 ribbon tied.  
In fine, by all he meets, he's t'ane  
To be th' Epitome of Long-Lane.  
And when their worships walk before  
To th' Tavern, or to see a Whore,  
He's cautioned 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 designed,  
Their Lordships use to seem more kind.  
There he may swagger, swear, and lye,  
And do any thing— but pay.  
Then after a sufficient stay,  
Borrows a Crown, and so good-by'e.    

The Third CANTO.  

I'd even forgot to let you know  
The Club w' once kept in Channel-row;  
Where A. & B. C. D. & I,  
Were th' elements o'th' Company:  
But all which past there was so common,  
'Tis scarce worth th' pains of a Relation,  
How they kept a hideous pother,  
Damning the Times, and one another.  
Who most Glasses did destroy,  
Or with most Courage beat the Boy.  
How such-a-one commends a Whore,  
Which t'other prizes Sack before.  
Or who so neatly dived away,  
Ere he his Reckoning did pay.  
Humours so trite as these, are known  
To every Tapster in the Town.  
But e're they so unruly grew,  
Thus each ones Character I drew.   

A. as 'tis first in th' Alphabet,  
So here he took the highest seat.  
As one whose Fortune, Birth, and Wit,  
Indeed did truly merit it.  
And here he neither struts nor swaggers,  
As I have known some Kings o'th' beggars.  
But that convenient distance gave,  
Which else they'd take without his leave.  
But him let all with reverence name  
The Darling, and the Pride of famed:  
Who's so all over wrapped in Bays,  
There's nothing to be seen but's Praise.  
He's one t' whom each Officious Muse  
Were of their Favours so profuse,  
That they have brought themselves to be  
Fed by his Mercy now; and we,  
The little Infants of the Art,  
Do as severely feel the smart,  
denied a Younger Brothers part.  
Nay, all our stocks won't mount t' a sum  
To pay him an Encomium.  
He's one whose Works, in times to come,  
Will be as honoured, and become  
Deathless as Ben's or Cowley's are,  
As beaumond, Fletcher, or shakespeare,  
One he himself is pleased t' admire.  
Nor could these Laureats living, be  
Better preferred, or loved than he.  
What could the Muses more have done,  
Or Apollo for a Son?  
Yet still he discontented is,  
And snarls at all the happiness  
The Richest Poetry can bring,  
And wounds it too with its own Sting.  
But who can blame that Active Soul,  
Which in a larger Sphere would roll?  
Whose Wit and Learning does deserve  
More than that narrow Art can give.   

Next unto A. B. took his place,  
Or Sir Fopling, if you please.  
I mean that Famous Limner, who  
So exactly his own Picture drew.  
Bless me! how neat a Wigg he has!  
What a rich Watch and Pocket-Glass!  
What a gay svit trimmed all about!  
Made by a French-man without doubt.  
His Ruffles and Cravat's all Lace,  
point a Venice he says it is.  
To what advantage does he wear  
His Rings? How stuffed with Stones they are?  
One having this Inscription,  
My Plow is all my Portion.  
For you must know he's kept by a Miss,  
A French one too, I've heard she is;  
Whose Favours tho' he strives to show,  
Her scars he has, I assure you too.  
Here I must his Description end,  
For fear he should a Challenge sand.  
Tho' he had better stay at home,  
To Hector Foot-boy, or a Groom.   

On th' other side heroic C.  
Did seat himself most formally.  
Whose Clothes now did not seem so bad,  
Because he lately upstart 'em had.  
His Hat new dressed, darn'd were his Hose,  
And neatly underlay'd his Shoes.  
His laced Cravats again appear,  
And his kind Laundress lets him wear  
His Ruffles, and an Hankercher.  
And now he seems to be a made Man,  
Since he an interest got in Cadem—  
Who now-and-then does not refuse  
A Crown, t' encourage a slow Muse,  
A Dish of Coffee, or Bochet,  
Or on a Sunday a Meals-meat.  
And 'tis most Charitably done,  
T' encourage such a wretched one,  
Without hopes of a recompense,  
At least till two or three years hence,  
About which time his Play, we guess,  
Will be ready for the Press.  
He's one who much of Oxford talks,  
Its stately Structures, Air, and Walks:  
Who, in his time, were Proctors there;  
How often he was caught, and where,  
Or with what craft he ' scaped the snare.  
But if you speak one word of's Chumb,  
The man immediately grows dumb.   

Then who sat next, if you would know it,  
'Twas D. the brisk lack-latine Poet;  
Who'll talk of Virgil and Horatius,  
Homer, Ovid, and Lucretius.  
And by the help of I know who,  
Sometimes presumes to quote 'em too.  
He's the famed Comedian of the Town,  
Who near a dozen Plays does own,  
Tho' I dare swear he ne'er writ one:  
But he has good Acquaintance, thô,  
I am informed, a Lord or two,  
To whom he brings the lump; and they  
Club to mould it to a Play.  
And if my Author tells me right,  
Epistles too themselves they writ.  
May they continue to do so,  
Or else poor D. to th' Goal must go,  
Angling for single Money in a show.   

Lastly, I must myself explain,  
One of the same unhappy Train:  
Who neither Wit or Learning boast,  
For both are in a Poet lost.  
scattered to nought in his career,  
Through Airy Roads, he knows not where.  
Neither do I hope to find  
One grain of Fortune left behind.  
For all I grasped which pleased me here,  
Whether they Wealth, or Honours were,  
As soon they were snatched back again,  
And swallowed in this Hurricane.  
But, Sir, I need not op'e to you  
These Ulcers of my Fate anew,  
You've seen so oft, and pitied too.  
I'll therefore only blame the Cause  
Which did such Miseries produce:  
And then for ever bid good-by'e  
To that starved Hag of Poetry.    

The Fourth CANTO.  

PHoebus! art thou the God of Wit,  
Yet takest no more care of it?  
Because thou art invoked by us,  
Must we be damned and tortured thus?  
And art resolved, lean Poverty  
Shall still thy Badge and Liv'ry be?  
As well, let Paper-Mills, and all  
The lousy Tribe of Begger's Hall,  
With the ragged Gipsie-Crue,  
Be Dedicated to thee too!  
All the Muses ask thee why  
Thou ' dopt'st 'em to such Slavery!  
And sufferest every Fop in Town,  
For to insult and trample on  
These rad'ent Di'dems of thy Crown!  
Sure thou want'st power to Rule below;  
For 'tis not Policy to do so,  
No! Kings their Greatness do secure  
By their Subjects Wealth and power.  
Nay, th' Gods may lose their Deities,  
If their Religious Votaries  
Do so Poor and Needy grow,  
That they want Victims to bestow.  
But Wit will above all things cease,  
denied the helps of Wealth and Ease.  
It must be cherished and kept warm;  
Which, like the Halcyon, hates a Storm.  
But since I find I am used so,  
And treated worse than Turk or Jew:  
Since the Tinker and his Trull  
Strut it with their Bellies full:  
Since the cobbler and the Sweep-Chimney  
Live happier and more safe than me,  
I'll quit thy Service, great Apollo,  
And some new Vocation follow:  
And tear thy ideas from my Brain,  
With thy starved, wretched Female Train.   

But must I from thy Service go  
Naked, in midst of Winter too?  
Did I for this a year, or more,  
Thy Airy, empty Shrine adore?  
Are thus my Cares and Watchings paid?  
The thousand Vows and prayers I made?  
The Lights which on thy Altar shone,  
When thou wert forced to hid thy own?  
Think how oft thou hast me espied  
Walking by such a Rivers side!  
When I saw thy shining Beam  
gilled the smooth Surface of the Stream,  
Thou know'st I did thy Image greet,  
And sang a thousand Hymns to it.  
But since I find I am thus served,  
Rent and torn, and almost starved,  
Yet wouldst thou have me longer stay  
To expect a fairer Day?  
Should I be cozened to do so,  
And again my Vows renew,  
My Case would never bettered be  
Under thy Conduct; no, tho' I  
Should share in th' Immortality.   

loathed Muse! Hag of my rest, be gone!  
Who'rt Scandalous as Av'rice grown:  
Common as any Whetstone-Whore,  
Where Poets learn their Stage-Amour.  
Go jilt among thy Vot'ries there,  
And clap 'em with poetic fire!  
fly to some Rhymer of the Town,  
By his lean, hungry Visage known!  
That Renegado, whifling Blade,  
Who's not himself but when he's Mad!  
But 'tis not all thy Syren-charms  
Can again tempt me to thy Arms:  
For I too well thy Couz'nage know,  
Thy hollow Heart, and painted Brow.  
How first thou to my Brain didst creep,  
And whilst my Sense was locked in sleep,  
Thou didst before my Fancy's Eye  
A thousand gaudy Fantasms lay.  
Then thorough false Perspectives show  
Groves, where gilded laurels grow.  
And every Tree's Ambrosiack Root  
With Arms of Nectar clasped about.  
In whose bright Streams I did espy  
Nine Naked Airy Ladies play:  
Some swimming on their Backs were seen,  
Who rise aloft, then dive again;  
Whilst others yet more amorous grew,  
And seemed not only to bestow  
Brimmers, but gave Embraces too.  
And th' little Mansions where they dwell,  
Were some of Gold, and some of Pearl,  
Tyl'd and paved with Tortoise-shell.   

A hundred things as vain as these,  
Did once my partial Fancy please:  
But when I looked about to know  
Whether they real were, or no;  
I apprehended the mistake,  
As Dreams of Pleasures when we ' wake.  
For when the crafty Muses thought  
theyed me for a Disciple got,  
They took the painted Scene away,  
laid down their Smiles and Flattery,  
And now in their own Shapes appear  
Rough, and Ghastly, as they are.   

Wherefore once more, Ladies adieu!  
farewell to England, and to you.  
For I 'm resolved; and now even Gain  
Shan't draw me to ye back again.  
Tho' Juno should assure me more,  
Than she did Paris heretofore:  
Or Venus too at the same time;  
I would not give 'em thanks in Rhyme.  
No, tho' should all of you agree  
To give your Helicon to me.  
Tho' those dear Bays I once did woe,  
Should strive to cling about my Brow;  
Nay, thô they were gilded too.  
I'd thence those fruitless Branches tear,  
And throw 'em with my Muse in th' fire.  
So what she so long courted, shall  
At last adorn her Funeral.   

Here I would end, being much in hast,  
And tired with scribbling so fast:  
howe'er a word or two I'll add,  
Lest you infer from what I've said,  
That Poverty's the only cause  
Which makes me thus desert my Muse.  
Thus far, indeed, the cause 't'as been,  
As 'tis th' effect of such a sin.  
For who ' n that Art can hope to thrive,  
Which does such wicked Licence give?  
Whose first Founders Pagans were,  
Groping for Truth they knew not where?  
And shall we Christians Sacrifice  
To their fantastic Deities?  
No, were I Rich ' nough to set up,  
I would not keep a Poet's Sho●;  
Nor traffic in such dangerous beware,  
They sell so cheap, and buy so dear.  
I'd not pick up each Whore I meet,  
Give her a Guynie and a Treat;  
Nor maintain Pimps nor Bawds for wit.  
No, I'd not give one brass Half-crown  
For all the Bawdry in the Town:  
For all th' Intrigues your Whetstone-Bawd,  
More-Fields, or Tower-Hill afford.  
To see Miss Betty every day,  
Dance Naked, or the Tumbler play.  
How well upon her Head she stood,  
Or with what Art she used the Rod.  
Or how she was unrig'd and kicked,  
When Sir John found his Pockets picked.   

I have not been at Newgate yet,  
To learn the Lifter, or the Cheat.  
But such lewd Learning let alone  
To the brisk Poets of the Town.    
FINIS.