Oh, wretched Man! what shall I do! Or whither had I best to go! _Job_ happy was, compar'd to me, A Prince in th' midst of's misery. Oh Heavens! since all his Griefs I know, Why have I not his Patience too? Hells self less Torment does contain Than is lodg'd in a Poet's brain; Howe're we may hereafter fare, I'm sure we meet Damnation here. I'd rather be a Dog; or Cat, The thing which next my self I hate. A Snake, an Adder, or a Toad: To these once _Egypt_'s Dotage bow'd. But me, the wretched'st thing e'r Born, Ev'n these by instinct loath and scorn. Then sighing, _Oh, my Play_! he cry'd; My _Play_ both _Houses_ have deny'd. They tell me, that their Summer-store Will all this Winter last, or more: Besides, that mine won't please the Times, Being Tragedy, and writ in Rhimes. Oh, I am ruin'd utterly! What shall I do! _My Play_! _My Play_! There's no one knows what pains I took, Ere I stretch'd it, to a Book. Nine Months my _Muse_ labour'd to bring Forth this Abortive, hapless thing: And suffer'd more than can be told Of Summers heat, and Winters cold. I've walk'd from Morning until Noon, 'Twixt _Lyon-Fields_ and _Kentish-Town_; Study'ng my self hungry and dry, I envy'd th' Beggers on the way. Then being forc'd to jogg it home Empty as a _vacuum_: I'd no way to appease my _Hostess_, But vow my _Play_ finish'd almost is; Then reading what I'd made of't o're, She'ld trust me for one shilling more. But since she heard it was refus'd, None can guess how I've been us'd. 'Bout Eight o'th'Clock on Thursday Morning, (My Angel then giving me warning) I had scarce lock'd my Door, but th' Baily Knock'd, saying, he'd a Letter for me: From first to last, he knock'd an hour, Ere I could get him to give o're; But when he saw it was in vain, The Rogue went swearing back again. But from that time to Sunday Morning, I kept the Fort, for all their Storming. Then without fear away I went; Thanks to the _King_ and _Parlement_. And now it is five days compleat, Since I had any thing to eat: Nor know I where to get Relief, No, not one Meal to save my Life. I've not a Neighbour, or Relation, But when they see me, quit their Station, And from me, as a Plague, they go, I wish my Creditors would do so! The Dev'l a rag of Clothes has _Jack_ 'Sides these you see upon my back; And they're so torn, I'm taken still For a walking Paper-Mill. My _Hat_ is like a Funnel grown, To vent the Vapours of my Crown. M' Eternal _Peruque_ does appear Golden, as _Apollo_'s Hair. And the Moss which hides my Face Is thicker, and as long as his. My _Breeches_ like th' Ship _Argo_ seem, Which is, and yet is not the same; For 'tis so patch'd, you cannot call One shred of 't the Original.