Many a good fortune goes to wrack; And so does many an able back; With following whores and cards and dice, Were poxed and beggared in a trice. “Aha!” said I, “by these rhymes methinks the poets should not be far off;” and the word was hardly out of my mouth, when I discovered millions of them through a park pale, and so I stopped to look upon them. (It seems in hell they are not called poets now, but fools.) One of them showed me the women’s quarter there hard by, and asked me what I thought of it, and of the handsome ladies in it. “Is it not true,” says he, “that a buxom lass is a kind of half chamber-maid to a man? when she has stripped him and brought him to bed, she has done her business, and never troubles herself any further about the helping him up again, and dressing him.” “How now,” said I, “Have ye your quirks and conceipts in hell? In troth ye are pleasant: I thought your edge had been taken off.” With that, out stepped the most miserable wretch of the whole company laden with irons: “Ah!” quoth he, “I would to God the first inventor of rhymes and poetry were here in my place,” and then he went on with this following and sad complaint. A COMPLAINT OF THE POETS IN HELL Oh, this damned trade of versifying Has brought us all to hell for lying! For writing what we do not think; Merely to make the verse cry clink. For rather than abuse the metre, Black shall be white, Paul shall be Peter. One time I called a lady, whore; Which in my soul she was no more Than I am; a brave lass, no beggar, And true, as ever man laid leg o’er. Not out of malice, Jove’s my witness, But merely for the verses fitness. “Now we’re all made,” said I, “if luck hold,” And then I called a fellow cuckold; Though the wife was (or I’ll be hanged) As good a wench as ever twanged. I was once plaguely put to’t; This would not hit, that would not do’t; At last, I circumcised (’tis true) A Christian, and baptized a Jew. Nay I’ve made Herod innocent For rhyming to Long-Parliament: Now to conclude, we are all damned ho, For nothing but a game at crambo. And for a little jingling pleasure, Condemned to torments without measure: Which is a little hard in my sense, To fry thus for poetic licence. ’Tis not for sin of thought or deed, But for bare sounds, and words we bleed: While the cur Cerberus lies growling In consort with our catterwowling.