Tossing from side to side most painfully,
Ere from my heart I squeeze those rhymes—my debt.
At my own charges, three fair copies then
I make.—’Tis well it were correct before
I send it forth among the sons of men;
But one thing, ’bove all else, doth vex me sore—
No man had ever manners ’nough to say,—
“Here, friend, take this, and for the paper pay!”
Sometimes, indeed, they may
Treat me to half a pint of Malvoisie,