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;

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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