My Stockings are worse rent and torn,
Than ever Poverty was drawn:
And round about more Stars appear }
Than Ursa major 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 Linnen, let 't alone, }
It needs not a Description; }
As I'm a Poet, I have none. }
My lac'd Crevat lies in Shoe-Lane,
Pawn'd for Tripe, and Chitterlin,
With an honest Mother there,
One Mistress Smith, a Victualler.
My Shirt lies Morgag'd in a Celler,
About the middle of Long-Acre,
With a Shee-Cook, call'd Goody Dutton,
For Porrage, Beans, and Chops 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
Unmov'd, nor let him sigh alone.
But when I'd all the Comfort gave,
He could from Friendly Advice receive;
I lent him six-pence, which was half
Of the small Stock I had my self.
Then after many thanks, and vows,
Unto White-Fryers straight he goes:
Where Bread and Cheese he said he'ld 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 six-pence gleek,
And go to Creswel's once a week:
Who Din'd at Locket's ev'ry day,
And sate in th' Boxes at a Play.
Envy it self 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 Rev'rence mark
Him, as he walk'd the Streets or Park.
But this did in a moment cease,
'Twas but a sudden, short-liv'd 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, 'bout Dinner-time,
Digesting his crude thoughts int' Rhime;
Where, if he meets with a Sir-fool,
With empty Head, and Pockets full,
Up to him straight 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 read and commended,
(Which without Vanity, he says,
Is th' best he writ, his Master-piece.)
He whisp ring in his Cully's ear,
Makes his Necessity appear:
Tells him of his last-nights expence,
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 sev'ral 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 agen. }
For who a Devil cares to sit
To be drawn by a Poet's wit?
Sir Am'rous 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)
Flie the loath'd House where these appear,
As if the Constable were there.