To a Gentleman, who promis'd his Letter of Recommendation

No Court-dependant in his Corner stands, When flush'd with Hopes to kiss his Patron's Hand; Who grudges neither Time nor Pains, the while, If he procures the Favour of a Smile. No Country Curate at Levee does appear, When big with Hopes of fifty Pound a Year; With meagre Looks, and many a cringing Scrape, To show the Merits of his tatter'd Crape. No poor Cadee, impatient of a Post, Whose Monty's spent, and nearest Friends are lost; That now has nothing left to shew him big, But shatter'd Ruffles, and a powder'd Wigg. Believe me, Sir, not one of all the three Has stronger Hopes, or wilder Thoughts than me. But still I hope my Views are founded better, Since I'm to get your kind and friendly Letter; And on my Word, I'll gratefully receive it, And humbly thank the worthy Hand that gave it. So now I value not the Rogues a Rush; I hope to make a Fortune of my Brush.