Classic Poem

Oh! How severe is our poor Poets Fate!
Who in this barren Trade begins so late.
True Wit' s no longer currant, 'tis cry'd down ,
And all your half-wits into Knavery grown,
Those who once lov'd the Stage, are now in years,
And leave good Poets for dull Pamphleteers;
Nay, for the worst of Rascals , Libellers.
In none of these will the young Sparks delight,
They never read, and scorn all those that write.
They only come the Boxes to survey,
Laugh, roar, and bawl, but never hear the Play
In Monkey's tricks they pass the time away,
At least, the Poet hopes, th've done to day.
The Graver sort, he's sure, have so much Sense,
That they'l ne're damn him for his first Offence.
He may take warning, and fling off this Itch,
That does poor Poets Hearts so much bewitch,
And, in a duller way, drudge and grow rich
Ye have no harden'd Malefactor here;
He ne're before did at this Bar appear.
If he should suffer, the first time he's in,
'Twere hard, as for a Girl, fresh, at sixteen,
To meet, at the first Venture, the mishap
To lose her Maidenhead, and get a Clap.