  Phoebus! art thou the God of Wit, Yet takest no more care of it? Because thou art invok'd by us, Must we be damn'd and tortur'd thus? And art resolv'd, lean Poverty Shall still thy Badge and Liv'ry be? As well, let Paper-Mills, and all The lousie 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 suffer'st ev'ry Fop in Town, } For to insult and trample on } These rad'ent Di'dems of thy Crown! } Sure thou want'st Pow'r to Rule below; For 'tis not Policy to do so. No! Kings their Greatness do secure By their Subjects Wealth and Pow'r. Nay, th' Gods may lose their Deities, Do so Poor and Needy grow, That they want Victims to bestow. But Wit will above all things cease, Deny'd the helps of Wealth and Ease. It must be cherish'd and kept warm; Which, like the Halcyon, hates a Storm. But since I find I am us'd so, And treated worse than Turk or Jew: Since the Tinker and his Trull Strut it with their Bellies full: Since the Cobler 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 Idea's from my Brain, With thy starv'd, wretched Female Train. But must I from thy Service go Naked, in mid'st of Winter too? Did I for this a year, or more, Thy Airy, empty Shrine adore? Are thus my Cares and Watchings pay'd? The thousand Vows and Pray'rs I made? The Lights which on thy Altar shone, When thou wert forc'd to hide thy own? Think how ost thou hast me espy'd Walking by such a Rivers side! When I saw thy shining Beam Thou know'st I did thy Image greet, And sang a thousand Hymns to it. But since I find I am thus serv'd, Rent and torn, and almost starv'd, Yet would'st thou have me longer stay To expect a fairer Day? Should I be couzen'd to do so, And again my Vows renew, My Case would never better'd be } Under thy Conduct, no, tho' I } Should share in th' Immortality.} Loath'd 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 Poetick fire! Flie 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 did'st creep, And whil'st my Sense was lock'd in sleep, Thou did'st before my Fancy's Eye Then thorow false Perspectives show Groves, where gilded Lawrels grow. And ev'ry Tree's Ambrosiack Root With Arms of Nectar clasp'd about, In whose bright Streams I did espie Nine Naked Airy Ladies play: Some swimming on their Backs were seen, Who rise aloft, then dive agen; Whilst others yet more Am'rous grew,} And seem'd 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 Pav'd with Tortoise-shell. } A hundred things as vain as these, Did once my partial Fancy please: But when I look'd 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 They'd me for a Disciple got; They took the painted Scene away; Lay'd down their Smiles and Flattery, And now in their own Shapes appear Rough, and Ghastly, as they are. Wherefore once more, Ladies adieu! For I'm resolv'd; and now ev'n Gain Shan't draw me to yee 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 woo, } Should strive to cling about my Brow;} Nay, thÔ they were gilded too. } I'ld 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, be'ng much in hast, And tyr'd with scribbling so fast: Howe're 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 bin, 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 kn FINIS. PRESS VARIANTS AND NOTES
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