Classic Poem

Since you're resolv'd, Dear Sir, t'abandon,
Our South-West Coast , and live in London ;
There, in your Coach, to make a Figure,
Your Purse and Belly ne'er the bigger)
Consider, well, th' important Step,
And Look, I pray, before you Leap.

Supposing, then, Remitted clear
Three hundred Pounds, my Friend, a Year,
(A pretty! Income, near the Fort ,
To make one easie, and thank God for't)
But, if I am not ill-instructed,
Exchange , on Bills, being first deducted;
The Proctor next, then Curate paid,
There is not so much to be had.
Deduct, too, Tyth of Pigs and Geese ;
Some Fish some Eggs : and Things like these;
Which (with Book-Dues ) I dare aver it,
Would pay your Annual Charge of Claret ;

Suppose, again, then, which is true,
Instead of Three, but Hundreds Two:
Are you, so much, Sir, in the Dark yet,
To think this Sum will go to Market,
Twelve, Months; without your being undone,
Where every Thing's so dear, in London ?
Where, it confounds the Deepest Sages;
To pay House-Rent and Servants Wages:
To lay in Coals, both small and great,
Which keep you warm, and dress your Meat:
Where great Estates away are swept,
By running in the Tradesmens Debt.

Believe me, Sir, 'twill never do there:
Consider Baker first, then Brewer ;
Pickles and Sawce , whene'er you Dine;
Dram , and Glass or Two of Wine!
With thousand Taxes, they Amerce one,
To Starve the Poor, and Glut the Parson.

Besides! your Friends make constant Sport on
Five-thousand Pounds! your English Fortune!
And say, in short, you're fairly Bit;
And better ta'en an Irish Tit ,
With half Five hundred; and staid here
To wake and sleep, secure; and cheer
Your Heart with cheap or unbought Food;
And save your Soul, By doing Good.

Behold! the Pleasures of Kinsale!
French Claret! neat. Pure Irish Ale!
Fresh Fish! accounted so inviting!
From largest Cod , to smallest Whiteing .
And Turbot boil'd! Delicious Food!
And Turbot sous'd! so wondrous Good!
(Whence Mary will immortal be,
Whilst Turbots can be brought from Sea!)
Or Pilcher , in fresh Butter drest;
Or Pilcher dry'd; it-self a Feast!
Or freshest Eggs , with saltest Ling ,
To pass by many other Thing;

And so I'll end my Irish Story,
Both Cases being laid before ye.