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 Fair stood his hopes when first he came to Town,

Met every-where with welcome of Renown,

Courted, and lov'd by all, with wonder read,

And promises of Princely Favour fed:

But what Reward for all had he at last,

After a Life in dull expectance pass'd?

The Wretch at summing up his mis-spent days

Found nothing left, but Poverty and Praise:

Of all his Gains by Verse he could not save

Enough to purchase Flannel, and a Grave:

Reduc'd to want, he in due time fell sick,

Was fain to die, and be interred on tick:

And well might bless the Fever that was sent,

To rid him hence, and his worse Fate prevent.

You've seen what Fortune other Poets, share;

View next the Factors of the Theatre:

That constant Mart, which all the year does hold,

Where Staple Wit is barter'd, bought, and sold;

Here trading Scriblers for their Maintenance,

And Livelihood trust to a Lott'ry chance:

But who his Parts would in the Service spend,

Where all his hopes on vulgar Breath depend?

Where every Sot, for paying half a Crown,

Has the Prerogative to cry him down?

Sidley indeed may be content with Fame,

Nor care should an ill judging Audience damn:

But Settle, and the reft, that write for Pence,

Whose whole Estate's an ounce, or two of Brains,

Should a thin House on the third day appear,

Must starve, or live in Tatters all the year.

And what can we expect that's brave and great,

From a poor needy Wretch, that writes to eat?

Who the success of the next Play must wait

For Lodging, Food, and Cloaths: and whose chief care

Is how to spunge for the next Meal, and where?

Hadst thou of old in flourishing Athens liv'd,

When all the learned Arts in Glory thriv'd; When