On Butler who can think without just rage,
The glory, and the scandal of the age?
Fair stood his hopes, when first he came to town,
Met everywhere with welcomes of renown,
Courted, and loved 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 passed?
The wretch at summing up his misspent 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;
Reduced 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 bartered, bought, and sold;
Here trading scribblers for their maintenance
And livelihood trust to a lottery-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,[1]
Has the prerogative to cry him down?
Sedley indeed may be content with fame,
Nor care should an ill-judging audience damn;
But Settle, and the rest, 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 clothes, and whose chief care
Is how to spunge for the next meal, and where?
- ↑ The price to the pit of the theatre.
