But there are some of Honour yet, } Who're great pretenders unto Wit, } And that they m'seem t' encourage it,} Will have a Poet at their tail; And whom to know that you mayn't fail, Has an old-fashion thread-bare Coat, Foul Linnen, Hat not worth a groat. If it be Summer, Freeze he'l wear; } In th' Winter Stuff, and that so bare, } His Lice can scarce find Harbour there.} Perhaps, he wears a Sword by's side, To 'ts Hilt one yard of Ribband ty'd. In fine, by all he meets, he's t'ane To be th' _Epitome_ of _Long-Lane_. And when their Lordships walk before To th' Tavern, or to see a Whore, He's caution'd not to come too nigh, Lest he disgrace the Company: But b'hind like one new fluxt does crawl, And lets each Foot-boy take the Wall. But when he comes to th' place design'd, Their Lordships use to seem more kind. There he may swagger, swear, and lie, And do any thing--but pay. Then after a sufficient stay, Borrows a Crown, and so good-by'e. _The Third CANTO._ I'd e'en forgot to let you know The Club w' once kept in _Channel-row_; Where _A_. & _B. C. D._ & _I_, Were th' elements o' th' Company: But all which past there was so common, 'Tis scarce worth th' pains of a Relation, How they kept a hideous pother, Damning the Times, and one another. Who most Glasses did destroy, Or with most Courage beat the Boy. How such-a-one commends a Whore, Which t'other prizes Sack before. Or who so neatly div'd away, Ere he his Reckoning did pay. Humours so trite as these, are known To ev'ry Tapster in the Town. But e're they so unruly grew, Thus each ones Character I drew.