Printed for J. Rivington, T. Longman, T. Lowndes, T. Caslon, C. Corbett, S. Bladon, W. Nicoll, T. Evans, and M. Waller.
MDCCLXXVI.
[PROLOGUE,]
Spoken by a Shabby Poet.
Ye Gods! what crime had my poor father done,
That you should make a poet of his son?
Or is't for some great services of his,
Y'are pleas'd to compliment his boy——with this?
[Shewing his crown of laurel.
The honour, I must needs confess is great,
If, with his crown, you'd tell him where to eat:
Tis well——But I have more complaints—look here!
[Shewing his ragged coat.
Hark ye; d'ye think this suit good winter wear?
In a cold morning; whu——at a Lord's gate,
How you have let the porter let me wait!
You'll say, perhaps, you knew I'd get no harm,
You'd given me fire enough to keep me warm.
Ah——
A world of blessings to that fire we owe;
Without it I'd ne'er made this princely show.
I have a brother too, now in my sight,