Читать книгу Plays, written by Sir John Vanbrugh, volume the second - John Vanbrugh - Страница 4

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Spoken by a Shabby Poet.

Ye Gods! what crime had my poor father done, That you should make a poet of his son? Or is't for some great services of his, Y'are pleas'd to compliment his boy——with this?

[Shewing his crown of laurel.

The honour, I must needs confess is great, If, with his crown, you'd tell him where to eat: Tis well——But I have more complaints—look here!

[Shewing his ragged coat.

Hark ye; d'ye think this suit good winter wear? In a cold morning; whu——at a Lord's gate, How you have let the porter let me wait! You'll say, perhaps, you knew I'd get no harm, You'd given me fire enough to keep me warm. Ah—— A world of blessings to that fire we owe; Without it I'd ne'er made this princely show. I have a brother too, now in my sight,

[Looking behind the scenes.

A busy man amongst us here to-night: Your fire has made him play a thousand pranks, For which, no doubt you've had his daily thanks: He's thank'd you, fi fi, for all his decent plays, Where he so nick'd it, when he writ for praise. Next for his meddling with some folks in black, And bringing——Souse——a priest upon his back; For building houses here t'oblige the peers, And fetching all their house about his ears; For a new play, he'as now thought fit to write, To sooth the town——which they——will damn to-night. These benefits are such, no man can doubt But he'll go on, and set your fancy out, Till for reward of all his noble deeds, At last, like other sprightly folks, he speeds: Has this great recompence fix'd on his brow } As fam'd Parnassus; has your leave to bow } And walk about the streets—equip'd——as I am now. }