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But fifty Guineas for a Whore and Clap!
The Peer's well us'd, and comes off wond'rous cheap:
A Poet wou'd be dear, and out o' th' way,
Should he expect above a Coachman's pay:
For this will any dedicate and lye,
And dawb the gawdy Ass with Flattery?
For this will any prostitute his Sence
To Coxcombs void of Bounty, as of Brains?
Yet such is the hard Fate of Writers now,
They're forced for Alms to each great Name to bow:
Fawn like her Lap-dog, on her tawdry Grace,
Commend her Beauty, and bely her Glass,
By which she every morning primes her Face:
Sneak to his honor, call him Witty, Brave,
And Just, tho' a known Coward, Fool, or Knave,
And praise his Lineage, and Nobility,
Whose Arms at first came from the Company.
'Tis so, 'twas ever so, since heretofore
The blind old Bard, with Dog and Bell before,
Was fain to sing for Bread from door to door.
The needy Muses all turn'd Gipsies then,
And of the begging Trade e'er since have been:
Should mighty Sappho in these days revive,
And hope upon her stock of Wit to live;
She must to Creswel's trudg to mend her Gains,
And let her Tail to hire, as well as Brains.
What Poet ever Fin'd for Sheriff? or who
By Wit and Sense did ever Lord Mayors grow?
My own hard Usage here I need not press,
Where you have every day before your face
Plenty of fresh resembling Instances:
Great Cowley's Muse the same ill Treatment had,
Whose Verse shall live for ever to upbraid
Th' ungrateful World that left such Worth unpaid.
Waller himself may thank Inheritance
For what he else had never got by Sense.
On Butler who can think without just Rage,
