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Poetical POVERTY.
1667.
To C. M. D.
Poverty
, I, like Small Drink, hate;
Yet 'tis, alas! the Poet's Fate.
And Want is such a stingey Crime,
It has no good excuse but Rhyme.
Yet here some comfort is exprest,
Poor, tho we be, the Poor are blest.
A favour granted by the Church,
To leave poor Poets in the lurch.
But they revenge this want of Alms,
By making her no better Psalms.
Who would make others sweetly chant,
And sigh themselves away for want?
As Poets shrivel'd Guts should be
Lute-strings for others Melody;
Thus Nightingals haste on their death,
By lavishing their sweet-tun'd Breath.
Those who rhyme on, and nothing get,
Ink may be call'd their mortal Sweat.
And every Copy that's so writ,
May be esteem'd their Winding-sheet.
123
Poets did Paper first invent;
Whose prompting Wants did first begin
Such Rags to lap his Verses in.
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