English poem
To Mr. Stanly Apothecary
Of all the Trades a Wit, is sure the worst, For Poets are by Providence acurst; The shabby Rogues get nothing for their Pains, But empty Pockets and tormented Brains; The great Reward adapted to their, Lays, Is Garret Lodgings and a little Praise, True, good Fellows, now and then may treat'em; But, serious Ones of e'vry Sort do hate'em, Will curse their Epigrams and damn their Muse, A better Trade say they to blacken Shoes; As for those Raskals with the scrib'ling Itch, Their donny Charters never to be Rich; Are valu'd like a Monkey for his Tail, And pledg'd by Doctors for a Pot of Ale.
More by Sir Jones Henry
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- To the Reverend Dr. Mann, occasioned by the Author's asking him for a Subject to write on, and his saying he…
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