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Ballance Expences Friend! sure thou dost ghess
I'm damnably given to excess,
Or Purse than Stomack less:
Neither's to great, I swear;
Yet I might purchase better chear,
If I that knack of Drinking could forbear.

I'le rather learn the Science how to steal,
Than be prescribed for my Meal
Thin broath and Racks of Veal.
I'm yet in no such strait,
Besieged by my wants, or fate,
Like sterv'd-out Towns, to eat, and drink by weight.

'Tis Tyranny to any free-born heart,
To be confined to a quart;
I'le rather have no part.
Set-diet shews a want,
And danger too; since Casuists grant
Our Grandam Eve sin'd chiefly by restraint.

My self to famish to increase my store,
Is to take pains how to be poor;
I'le rather run o'th' Score.
For I would rather fear
Grim Judges and their Sentence hear,
Than be my self my Executioner.

142

If thou'rt not rich, thou would'st not Fates obey,
Who set thee in a ready way,
But led me quite astray:
For Megs, with tempting light,
(Which are the Muses, as some write)
Dazled mine Eyes, and did mislead me quite.

These Dalila's they tempted out mine Eyes,
And made me grope like foolish Boys,
For praise and Wreaths, mere Toys!
When that care (some will say)
If but turn'd downwards (the right way)
Had digg'd up Gold, as soon as pluck't the Bay.

But fam'd Parnassus, and the Silver stream
Of too-bewitching Hippocrene,
Me from those thoughts did wean:
They, like some Fairy Land,
Or like scortch'd Affrick flatt'ring stand.
With pleasant Shores, but full of barren Sand.

'Tis true, we please our Fancies, and can tow'r,
Like chirping Larks after a shower;
But 'tis not in our power
In that state to remain;
But to the Earth we fall again,
Eying the Sun's bright Gold, we ne'r obtain.

Yet for all this, I must the Muses love;
Constrain'd by some odd Pow'r above,
Tho they unkindly prove:
Inslav'd thus by our Fate
Is our mad Sex, that cannot hate
Woman, that ruin'd first our happy state.

143

Those sweet Devourers by our selves are nurst:
As from his side old Adam first
Gave what him after curst.
Each Poet Adam is,
His Muse an Eve, who makes him miss,
With false pretences tempting him from bliss.

Thou Damn'd inchanting Wealth, alluring Hagg!
Keep in thy smoth'ring Hell, thy Bag,
And make not me thy brag.
Whilst I but thought of thee;
Such is thy devillish Witchery,
I was infected with thy Heresie.

Wouldst thou turn me a Rebel? have me seen
To take up Arms against my Queen?
Hold, hold, my swelling Spleen!
Wouldst stop my Muses Song?
Like that base Wretch, who did the wrong
To Philomel, and then cut out her tongue?

Pardon Apollo, and you Muses nine;
Tho your Hill's bare it is a sign
It does infold a Mine.
Yet, fool, how was I craz'd,
Like silly Conjurers, amaz'd
With Apparitions, that my self had rais'd?

Poets are counted poor; 'tis true; but know
They riches have, they will not show:
Deep Rivers, silent flow.
There is a Place they call,
At Rome, Saint Peter's Hospital,
And yet the Pots and Dishes Silver all.

144

They have no shining Oar, no pleasing Chink;
Yet find in Verse a sweeter clink,
And glitter in their Ink.
Such wealth will not deny
Them Wings, with Gold they cannot fly,
'Tis th' heavi'st Metal, and with Dirt must lye.

Gold is the dross, and Wit the precious Oar;
Whilst Poets do injoy that store,
How can they be call'd poor?
This tho the World gain-say;
It, like bad Chymists, throws away
The purer Metal keeping the Allay.

Apollo's so attractive, some we see
Would leave their Infidelity,
And real Converts be:
They gladly would compound,
And now his Temples do surround:
Thus Christian Churches with the Turks are found.

Such Hereticks, who have been so profane;
All their devotion will be vain
Before his Sacred Fane:
For none such can be ghest
Worthy to be Apollo's Priest;
Some whining Clerk, or Deacon at the best.

Then let us charily keep close our Skill,
As they do all their Treasure still;
Soon change with us they will:

145

Else when they come to dye,
How will they get an Elegy?
For Poets when unpaid will never lye.