(15)
When mighty Sophocles the Stage did sway,
And Poets by the State were held in pay;
Twere worth thy pains to cultivate thy Muse,
And daily wonders then it might produce:
But who would now write Hackney to a Stage
That's only thought the Nuisance of the Age?
Go after this, and beat thy wretched Brains,
And toil to bring in thankless Ideots means:
Turn o'er dull Horace, and the Classck Fools,
To poach for Sense, and hunt for idle Rules:
Be free of Tickets, and the Play-Houses,
To make some tawdry Actress there thy Prize,
And spend thy third Days gains 'twixt her clap'd Thighs.
All Trades, and all Professions here abound,
And yet Encouragement for all is found:
Here a vile Emp'rick, who by Licence kills,
Who every-where helps to increase the Bills,
Wears Velvet, keeps his Coach, and Whore beside,
For what less Villains must to Tyburn ride.
There a dull trading Sot, in Wealth o'ergrown
By thriving Knavery, can call his own
A dozen Mannors; and if Fate still bless,
Expects as many Counties to possess.
Punks, Panders, Bawds, all their due Pensions gain,
And every day the Great Mens Bounty drain:
Lavish expence on Wit, has never yet
Been tax'd amongst the Grievances of State.
The Turky, Guinny, Indian Gainers be,
And all but the Poetick Company:
Each place of Traffick, Bantam, Smyrna, Zant,
Greenland, Virginia, Sevil, Alicant,
And France, that sends us Dildoes, Lace, and Wine,
Vast profit all, and large Returns bring in:
Parnassus only is that barren Coast,
Where the whole Voyage and Adventure's lost.
Then be advis'd, the slighted Muse forsake,
