Who could the joys of London e’er decline,
Unless deterr’d by Poverty’s sad frown.
On some gay scene, by flattering Fancy dress’d,
The visionary mind still loves to dwell;
And Sadler’s Wells, or Lord Mayor’s gaudy vests,
Delight the village beau, or rustic belle.
For thee, who, mindful of the Scribbler’s lot
Dost in these lines their ill success relate,
If chance, when in the world thy name’s forgot,
Some kindred Poet should enquire thy fate?