On seeing a tatter'd, wretched Poet

What ragged Figure pray, is that, I cry'd? A scurvy Poet, Sir, my friend reply'd: Indeed, indeed, Sir, that's the Poet Hughes, The sorryest Bard that e'er invok'd a Muse. Truly, said I, he bears a double curse— Poor in his pocket, poorer in his verse. The most deplorable of all sights, sure, Is a poor Poet, and a Poet poor.