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Ev'n that vile Wretch, who in lewd Verse each year
Describes the Pageants, and my good Lord May'r;
Whose Works must serve the next Election-day
For making Squibs, and under Pies to lay;
Yet counts himself of the inspired Train,
And dares in Thought the sacred Name profane.
' But is it nought (thou'lt say) in Front to stand,
' With Lawrel crown'd by White, or Loggan's hand?
' Is it not great and glorious to be known,
' Mark'd out, and gaz'd at thro the wondering Town,
' By all the Rabble passing up and down?
So Oats and Bodloe have been pointed at,
And every busie Coxcomb of the State:
The meanest Felons who thro' Holborn go,
More Eyes and Looks than twenty Poets draw:
If this be all, go have thy posted Name
Fix'd up With Bills of Quack and publick Shame;
To be the stop of gaping Prentices,
And read by reeling Drunkards when they piss;
Or else to be expos'd on trading Stall,
While the bilk'd Owner hires Gazetts to tell,
'Mongst Spaniels lost, that Author does not sell.
Perhaps, fond Fool, thou sooth'st thy self in dream,
With hopes of purchasing a lasting Name:
Thou think'st perhaps thy Trifles shall remain.
Like sacred Cowley, and immortal Ben.
But who of all the bold Adventurers,
Who now drive on the trade of Fame in Verse
Can be ensur'd in this unfaithful Sea,
Where there so many lost and shipwrack'd be?
How many Poems writ in ancient time,
Which thy Fore-fathers had in great esteem;
Which in the crowded Shops bore any rate,
And sold like News-Books, and Affairs of State
Have grown contemptible, and slighted since,
As Pordage, Fleckno, or the British Prince?
Quarles, Chapman, Haywood, Withers had Applause,
