On th' other side Heroick _C._ Did seat himself most formally. Whose Clothes now did not seem so bad, Because he lately vampt 'em had. His Hat new dress'd, darn'd were his Hose, And neatly underlay'd his Shoes. His Lac'd Cravats again appear, } And his kind Laundress lets him wear} His Ruffles, and an Hankercher. } And now he seems to be a made Man, Since he an Int'rest got in _Cadem_-- Who now-and-then does not refuse A Crown, t' encourage a slow Muse, A Dish of Coffee, or Bochet, Or on a Sunday a Meals-meat. And 'tis most Charitably done, T' encourage such a wretched one, Without hopes of a Recompence, At least 'till two or three years hence, About which time his Play, we guess, Will be ready for the Press. He's one who much of _Oxford_ talks, Its stately Structures, Air, and Walks: Who, in his time, were Proctors there; } How often he was caught, and where, } Or with what craft he 'scap'd the snare.} But if you speak one word of's Chumb, The man immediately grows dumb. Then who sat next, if you would know it, 'Twas _D._ the brisk lack-latine Poet; Who'll talk of _Virgil_ and _Horatius_, _Homer_, _Ovid_, and _Lucretius_. And by the help of I know who, Sometimes presumes to quote 'em too. He's the fam'd Comedian of the Town,} Who near a dozen Plays does own, } Tho' I dare swear he ne'r writ one: } But he has good Acquaintance, thô, I am inform'd, a Lord or two, To whom he brings the lump; and they Club to mould it to a Play. And if my Author tells me right, Epistles too themselves they write. May they continue to do so, } Or else poor _D._ to th' Goal must go,} _Angling for single Money in a Shoe_. } Lastly, I must my self explain, One of the same unhappy Train: Who neither Wit or Learning boast, For both are in a Poet lost. Scatter'd to nought in his Carreer, Through Airy Roads, he knows not where. Neither do I hope to find One grain of Fortune left behind. For all I grasp'd which pleas'd me here, Whether they Wealth, or Honours were, As soon they were snatch'd back again, And swallow'd in this Hurricane. But, Sir, I need not op'e to you } These Ulcers of my Fate anew, } You've seen so oft, and pitty'd too.} I'll therefore only blame the Cause Which did such Miseries produce: And then for ever bid good-by'e To that starv'd Hag of Poetry. _The Fourth CANTO._