It seems he had a Poetical Purse as well as a Poetical Brain, being much straightned in the Gifts of Fortune; as he exclaims in his Pierce Penniless.
Why is't damnation to despair and die,
When Life is my true happiness disease?
My Soul, my Soul, thy Safety makes me fly
The faulty Means that might my Pain appease.
Divines and dying men may talk of Hell,
But in my Heart her several Torments dwell.
Ah worthless Wit, to train me to this Wo!
Deceitful Arts that nourish Discontent,
Ill thrive the Folly that bewitch'd me so!