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Fair stood his hopes when first he came to Town,
Met every-where with welcome of Renown,
Courted, and lov'd by all, with wonder read,
And promises of Princely Favour fed:
But what Reward for all had he at last,
After a Life in dull expectance pass'd?
The Wretch at summing up his mis-spent days
Found nothing left, but Poverty and Praise:
Of all his Gains by Verse he could not save
Enough to purchase Flannel, and a Grave:
Reduc'd to want, he in due time fell sick,
Was fain to die, and be interred on tick:
And well might bless the Fever that was sent,
To rid him hence, and his worse Fate prevent.
You've seen what Fortune other Poets, share;
View next the Factors of the Theatre:
That constant Mart, which all the year does hold,
Where Staple Wit is barter'd, bought, and sold;
Here trading Scriblers for their Maintenance,
And Livelihood trust to a Lott'ry chance:
But who his Parts would in the Service spend,
Where all his hopes on vulgar Breath depend?
Where every Sot, for paying half a Crown,
Has the Prerogative to cry him down?
Sidley indeed may be content with Fame,
Nor care should an ill judging Audience damn:
But Settle, and the reft, that write for Pence,
Whose whole Estate's an ounce, or two of Brains,
Should a thin House on the third day appear,
Must starve, or live in Tatters all the year.
And what can we expect that's brave and great,
From a poor needy Wretch, that writes to eat?
Who the success of the next Play must wait
For Lodging, Food, and Cloaths: and whose chief care
Is how to spunge for the next Meal, and where?
Hadst thou of old in flourishing Athens liv'd,
When
