Classic Poem

T H ' unhappy man, who once has trail'd a pen,
Lives not to please himself, but other men;
Is always drudging, wastes his life and blood,
Yet only eats and drinks what you think good:
What praise soe'er the poetry deserve,
Yet every fool can bid the poet starve.
That fumbling lecher to revenge is bent,
Because he thinks himself or whore is meant:
Name but a cuckold, all the city swarms;
From Leadenhall to Ludgate is in arms.
Were there no fear of Antichrist, or France,
In the best times poor poets live by chance.
Either you come not here, or, as you grace
Some old acquaintance, drop into the place,
Careless and qualmish with a yawning face:
You sleep o'er wit, and by my troth you may;
Most of your talents lie another way.
You love to hear of some prodigious tale,
The bell that toll'd alone, or Irish whale.
News is your food, and you enough provide,
Both for yourselves, and all the world beside.
One theater there is of vast resort,
Which whilom of Requests was call'd the Court;
But now the great Exchange of News 't is hight,
And full of hum and buzz from noon till night.
Upstairs and down you run, as for a race,
And each man wears three nations in his face.
So big you look, tho' claret you retrench,
That, arm'd with bottled ale, you huff the French;
But all your entertainment still is fed
By villains in our own dull island bred:
Would you return to us, we dare engage
To show you better rogues upon the stage
You know no poison but plain ratsbane here;
Death 's more refin'd, and better bred elsewhere.
They have a civil way in Italy,
By smelling a perfume to make you die;
A trick would make you lay your snuffbox by.
Murder's a trade—so known and practie'd there,
That 't is infallible as is the chair—
But mark their feasts, you shall behold such pranks;
The Pope says grace, but 't is the Devil gives thanks.