But there are some of Honour yet, }
Who're great pretenders unto Wit, }
And that they m'seem t' encourage it, }
Will have a Poet at their tail;
And whom to know that you mayn't fail,
Has an old-fashion thread-bare Coat,
Foul Linnen, Hat not worth a groat.
If it be Summer, Freeze he'l wear; }
In th' Winter Stuff, and that so bare, }
His Lice can scarce find Harbour there.}
Perhaps, he wears a Sword by's side,
To 'ts Hilt one yard of Ribband ty'd.
In fine, by all he meets, he's t'ane
To be th' Epitome of Long-Lane.
And when their Lordships walk before
To th' Tavern, or to see a Whore,
He's caution'd not to come too nigh,
Lest he disgrace the Company:
But b'hind like one new fluxt does crawl,
And lets each Foot-boy take the Wall.
But when he comes to th' place design'd,
Their Lordships use to seem more kind.
There he may swagger, swear, and lie,
And do any thing—but pay.
Then after a sufficient stay,
Borrows a Crown, and so good-by'e.
[The Third CANTO.]
I'd e'en forgot to let you know
The Club w' once kept in Channel-row;
Where A. & B. C. D. & I,
Were th' elements o' th' Company:
But all which past there was so common,
'Tis scarce worth th' pains of a Relation,
How they kept a hideous pother,
Damning the Times, and one another.
Who most Glasses did destroy,
Or with most Courage beat the Boy.
How such-a-one commends a Whore,
Which t'other prizes Sack before.
Or who so neatly div'd away,
Ere he his Reckoning did pay.
Humours so trite as these, are known
To ev'ry Tapster in the Town.
But e're they so unruly grew,
Thus each ones Character I drew.
A. as 'tis first in th' Alphabet,
So here he took the highest seat.
As one whose Fortune, Birth, and Wit,
Indeed did truly merit it.
And here he neither struts nor swaggers,
As I have known some Kings o' th' Beggers.
But that convenient distance gave,
Which else they'ld take without his leave.
But him let all with Rev'rence name
The Darling, and the Pride of Fame:
Who's so all over wrapt in Bays,
There's nothing to be seen but's Praise.
He's one t' whom each Officious Muse
Were of their Favours so profuse,
That they have brought themselves to be
Fed by his Mercy now; and we,
The little Infants of the Art, }
Do as severely feel the smart, }
Deny'd a Younger Brothers part. }
Nay, all our stocks won't mount t' a sum
To pay him an Encomium.
He's one whose Works, in times to come,
Will be as Honour'd, and become
Deathless as Ben's or Cowley's are, }
As Beaumont, Fletcher, or Shakespear, }
One he himself is pleas'd t' admire. }
Nor could these Laureats living, be
Better prefer'd, or lov'd than he.
What could the Muses more have done,
Or Apollo for a Son?
Yet still he discontented is,
And snarles at all the happiness
The Richest Poetry can bring,
And wounds it too with its own Sting.
But who can blame that Active Soul,
Which in a larger Sphere would roul?
Whose Wit and Learning does deserve
More than that narrow Art can give.
Next unto A.B. took his place,
Or Sir Fopling, if you please.
I mean that Famous Limner, who
So exactly his own Picture drew.
Bless me! how neat a Wigg he has!
What a rich Watch and Pocket-Glass!
What a gay Suit trim'd all about!
Made by a French-man without doubt.
His Ruffles and Cravat's all Lace,
Poynt a Venice he says it is.
To what advantage does he wear
His Rings? How stuft with Stones they are?
One having this Inscription,
My Plow is all my Portion.
For you must know he's kept by a Miss,
A French one too, I've heard she is;
Whose Favours tho' he strives to shew,
Her scars he has, I assure you too.
Here I must his Description end,
For fear he should a Challenge send.
Tho' he had better stay at home,
To Hector Foot-boy, or a Groom.
On th' other side Heroick C.
Did seat himself most formally.
Whose Clothes now did not seem so bad,
Because he lately vampt 'em had.
His Hat new dress'd, darn'd were his Hose,
And neatly underlay'd his Shoes.
His Lac'd Cravats again appear, }
And his kind Laundress lets him wear}
His Ruffles, and an Hankercher. }
And now he seems to be a made Man,
Since he an Int'rest got in Cadem—
Who now-and-then does not refuse
A Crown, t' encourage a slow Muse,
A Dish of Coffee, or Bochet,
Or on a Sunday a Meals-meat.
And 'tis most Charitably done,
T' encourage such a wretched one,
Without hopes of a Recompence,
At least 'till two or three years hence,
About which time his Play, we guess,
Will be ready for the Press.
He's one who much of Oxford talks,
Its stately Structures, Air, and Walks:
Who, in his time, were Proctors there; }
How often he was caught, and where, }
Or with what craft he 'scap'd the snare.}
But if you speak one word of's Chumb,
The man immediately grows dumb.
Then who sat next, if you would know it,
'Twas D. the brisk lack-latine Poet;
Who'll talk of Virgil and Horatius,
Homer, Ovid, and Lucretius.
And by the help of I know who,
Sometimes presumes to quote 'em too.
He's the fam'd Comedian of the Town,}
Who near a dozen Plays does own, }
Tho' I dare swear he ne'r writ one: }
But he has good Acquaintance, thô,
I am inform'd, a Lord or two,
To whom he brings the lump; and they
Club to mould it to a Play.
And if my Author tells me right,
Epistles too themselves they write.
May they continue to do so, }
Or else poor D. to th' Goal must go,}
Angling for single Money in a Shoe. }
Lastly, I must my self explain,
One of the same unhappy Train:
Who neither Wit or Learning boast,
For both are in a Poet lost.
Scatter'd to nought in his Carreer,
Through Airy Roads, he knows not where.
Neither do I hope to find
One grain of Fortune left behind.
For all I grasp'd which pleas'd me here,
Whether they Wealth, or Honours were,
As soon they were snatch'd back again,
And swallow'd in this Hurricane.
But, Sir, I need not op'e to you }
These Ulcers of my Fate anew, }
You've seen so oft, and pitty'd too.}
I'll therefore only blame the Cause
Which did such Miseries produce:
And then for ever bid good-by'e
To that starv'd Hag of Poetry.