Classic Poem

Each minstrel, quack, and strolling play'r,
Each mime, and scrub is in despair,
And with their ragged race deplore,
Tigellius now can sing no more.
The truth is, he was very good,
And lib'ral to the brotherhood.
Another, lest he comes to shame,
Dreads such a spendthrift's very name;
So close, he will not give a friend
What cold and hunger may defend.
Another, if you ask him why
His grandsire's, father's fortunes fly,
While cash he borrows but to waste,
And gratify his dainty taste,
He answers, he wou'd not be deem'd
Mean-spirited—which is esteem'd
By some as matter worthy fame,
By some of obloquy and blame.
Fufidius, rich in free-hold land,
And money lent at the best hand,
Wou'd not be call'd a thief or rake.—
He from the capital will take
Some five per cent. upon the nail,
And the more desperate and frail
A man in circumstance is found,
Or life, the more he will be ground.
He hunts for names, and lies in wait
For youths arriv'd at man's estate,
Who just from rigid guardians came—
At this what man will not exclaim,
O sov'reign Jove!—But he, we'll say,
Spends in proportion to his pay:
While it is out of human creed
How much himself he will not heed;
So that the father, whom we see
Presented in the comedy,
And tortur'd at his booby's flight
Was not in such a wretched plight.
Now if you wou'd inquire, my friends,
To what this dissertation tends—
‘Why fools by ill-concerted schemes,
Shun vice for opposite extremes!’