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

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

So Quacks as eas'ly as they will,
Can get Licenses to kill,
Whil'st 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 Theams for ev'ry 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 drown'd,
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' expence 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 vow'd 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 joyn
To cheat the Poet of his Coyn.
Whil'st he, poor Drudge! must toil and sweat
Honourable stabs to get;
And is forc'd to sigh, and stay
For the Lawrel '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 gild his Fun'ral Bays.

The Players, who scarce know to write
Their Names, or spell one word aright,
Or read 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 prov'd invet'rate to.
Look how they strut it as they go! }
And in the streets make such a show,}
As if they'ld 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 Orphants groans, and Widows tears.
In short, the World it self; 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 feign'd 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 PhaËton.
I cannot chuse but laugh to think
If these poor Moon-calves had no Drink
But that same thinnish, blewish Whey
Press'd 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'ld 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 Plumme;
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, }

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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