Page:Poetical Works of John Oldham.djvu/208

198 I scarce lie down, and draw my curtains here, But straight I'm roused by the next house on fire; Pale, and half dead with fear, myself I raise, And find my room all over in a blaze; By this 't has seized on the third stairs, and I Can now discern no other remedy, But leaping out at window to get free; For if the mischief from the cellar came, Be sure the garret is the last takes flame. 'The moveables of Pordage were a bed For him and 's wife, a basin by its side, A looking-glass upon the cupboard's head, A comb-case, candlestick, and pewter spoon For want of plate, a desk to write upon; A box without a lid served to contain Few authors, which made up his Vatican; And there his own immortal works were laid, On which the barbarous mice for hunger preyed; Pordage had nothing, all the world does know, And yet should he have lost this nothing too, No one the wretched bard would have supplied With lodging, house-room, or a crust of bread. 'But if the fire burn down some great man's house, All straight are interested in the loss; The court is straight in mourning sure enough, The act, commencement, and the term put off; Then we mischances of the town lament, And fasts are kept, like judgments to prevent. Out comes a brief immediately, with speed To gather charity as far as Tweed.