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The POET on Foot.
1665.
To Mr. S.
Tho late, I come at last, this stay of mine
Carries no more of Rudeness than Design;
105
That look'd-for Guests find always chear too much.
Which my weak Stomack never could digest;
Since too much Expectation daunts a Guest.
But this, Sir, was not all my Muse kept home,
Constrain'd by fate, else she had sooner come.
She wants a Steed; and she has got the pride
Of wanton Girls, that would on Cock-horse ride:
But the strange-Horse-disease, that rag'd with us,
Amongst some others, caught my Pegasus.
But tho he did escape; He yet does lack
The only Medicine, a Drench of Sack:
Which is such costly feeding this hard year,
Our Hacknies will be, than ourselves, more bare;
I mean us Poets: For those who are able
Keep their Jades lean i'th' Study, fat i'th' Stable.
I loyter'd thus hoping at Lenton-fair,
Amongst our Gallants, I might borrow there.
Alas, in vain! unless I would shift thus,
Making a Hobby-Horse my Pegasus.
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