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To a spurious Poet.
BEtwixt the hawke and buzzard, bastard-kite,
How durst thou try to make an Eagles flight,
And with thy blear eyes in so high a place,
To look my great Apollo in the face?
Sirrah, 'twas mercy he was wrapt about
With clouds, else had thy eyes bin quite burnt out,
Then to thy fancie thou would'st seem to be
An English Homer, as stark blinde as he,
The Ballad-singers should thy dogrels sell,
Thou call••d the Poet with the dog and bell;
Then rithme i'th' streets, and on a wad of hay
Kneel, and in verse the learned begger play
Amongst the scaldheads under White-hall wall,
If it be ne'er so little amongst you all,
For the Muses sake before you go yet
Pray remember the poor blinde cripple Poet;
Then roguish waggish boyes as they passe by,
Chuck farthings in the hollow of thine eye,
Or else spit charity in thy greasie hat,
Blow oisters in't, There, Poet, take thee that.
Then play the Higins for the regiment
Of lowsie tag-raggs till thy lungs be spent,
And on the Sabbath with thy wooden dish
Beg pottage for them, their best Sunday-wish;