Classic Poem

Shift here, in town, not meanest among squires,
That haunt Pikthatch, Marshlambeth, and Whitefriars,
Keeps himself, with half a man, and defrays
The charge of that state, with this charm, god pays.
By that one spell he lives, eats, drinks, arrays
Hiself: his whole revénue is, god pays.
The quarter-day is come; the hostess says,
She must have money: he returns, god pays.
He steals to ordinaries; there he plays
At dice his borrowed money: which, god pays.
Then takes up fresh commodity, for days;
Signs to new bond, forfeits: and cries, god pays.
That lost, he keeps his chamber, reads essays,
Takes physic, tears the papers: still god pays.
Or else by water goes, ans so to plays;
Calls for his stool, adorns the stage: god pays.
To every cause he meets, this voice he brays:
His only answer is to all, god pays.
Not his poor cockatrice but he betrays
Thus: and for his lechery, scores, god pays.
But see! The old bawd hath served him in his trim,
Lent him a pocky whore. She hath paid him.