From Leadenhall to Ludgate is in arms.
Were there no fear of Antichrist, or France,
In the blest time poor poets live by chance.
}
Either you come not here, or, as you grace }
Some old acquaintance, drop into the place, }
Careless and qualmish with a yawning face: }
You sleep o'er wit,—and by my troth you may;
Most of your talents lie another way.
You love to hear of some prodigious tale,