See how the gaping Merchants range, Hunting their Chapmen on the Change, Whose Various Voices frame a sound, Like Billows when their Ships are drown'd, And in one hour more fat do sweat Than th' Poet in a year can get. Those worst of Atheists! who do hold There is no Deity but Gold! They hate the Poet 'cause he's poor, And only th' Golden Calf adore. Our Plays, they say, are wicked dear, Th' expence in Ballads will go far. Nay, I protest I've heard some say Plays are a kind of Popery. I'th' City-shops they're thought Profane, As were Minc'd-pies in _Cromwel_'s Reign. Where, when for _Dryden_'s Works I came, They vow'd they never heard his Name. But they had _Baxter_'s, if you please, And such-like precious things as these. Bless 'em from Plays; they'd rather go Unto a Conventicle, or so. The Stationer grows fat on th' gain, He sucks from the poor Poet's brain. He, and the Printer, who does know Nothing beyond the Cris-cros-row, Do still their Heads together joyn To cheat the Poet of his Coyn. Whil'st he, poor Drudge! must toil and sweat Honourable stabs to get; And is forc'd to sigh, and stay For the Lawrel 'till he's gray: And at last together come To his Honour, and his Tomb. Tho' when dead, his Friends may'nt raise Enough to gild his Fun'ral Bays. The Players, who scarce know to write Their Names, or spell one word aright, Or read their Parts, unless writ fair In a large _Roman_ Character, Call us their Slaves, who for their gain Must toil, and all their faults sustain. In gay Attire each day they shine; Eat well, and drink the Richest Wine, All fat and plump, except some few The _French-man_ prov'd invet'rate to. Look how they strut it as they go! } And in the streets make such a show,} As if they'ld there Act Princes too!} While th' Poet sneaking all alone In some by-lane where he's unknown; No farther than his Pot can go, And has a Pipe to th' bargain too. I hardly a poor Lawyer know, Unless some who are Poets too. They thrive by Rapine and Revenge, And making Enemies of Friends: Feeding on others hopes and fears, On Orphants groans, and Widows tears. In short, the World it self; and all We Trade, and Art, and Science call, Are grand Impostures; false and vain, Invented but to bring in gain.