| |
| TH’ 1 unhappy man who once has trail’d a Pen, | |
| Lives not to please himself, but other men; | |
| Is always drudging, wasts his Life and Blood. | |
| Yet only eats and drinks what you think good. | |
| What praise soe’re the Poetry deserve, | 5 |
| Yet every Fool can bid the Poet starve. | |
| That fumbling Lecher to revenge is bent, | |
| Because he thinks himself or Whore is meant: | |
| Name but a Cuckold, all the City swarms; | |
| From Leaden-hall to Ludgate is in Arms. | 10 |
| Were there no fear of Antichrist or France, | |
| In the best 2 times 3 poor Poets live by chance. | |
| Either you come not here, or, as you grace | |
| Some old acquaintance, drop into the place, | |
| Careless and qualmish with a yawning Face. | 15 |
| You sleep o’re Wit, and by my troth you may; | |
| Most of your Talents lye another way. | |
| You love to hear of some prodigious Tale, | |
| The Bell that tolled alone, or Irish Whale. | |
| News is your Food, and you enough provide, | 20 |
| Both for your selves and all the World beside. | |
| One Theatre there is of vast resort, | |
| Which whilome of Requests was called the Court. | |
| But now the great Exchange of News ’tis hight, | |
| And full of hum and buzz from Noon till Night: | 25 |
| Up Stairs and down you run, as for a Race, | |
| And each Man wears three Nations in his Face. | |
| So big you look, tho’ Claret you retrench, | |
| That, arm’d with bottled Ale, you huff the French. | |
| But all your Entertainment still is fed | 30 |
| By Villains in our 4 own dull Island bred: | |
| Would you return to us, we dare engage | |
| To show you better Rogues upon the Stage. | |
| You know no Poison but plain Rats-bane here; | |
| Death’s more refind, and better bred elsewhere. | 35 |
| They have a civil way in Italy | |
| By smelling a perfume to make you dye, | |
| A Trick would make you lay your Snuffbox by. | |
| Murder’s a Trade—so known and practis’d there, | |
| That ’tis Infallible as is the Chair—— | 40 |
| But mark their Feasts, 5 you shall behold such Pranks; | |
| The Pope says Grace, but ’tis the Devil gives Thanks. | |
