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Updated: May 22, 2025
Believe me, Gallants, he'as abus'd you all; There's not a Vizard in our whole Cabal: Those are but Pickeroons that scour for prey And catch up all they meet with in their way; Who can no Captives take, for all they do Is pillage ye, then gladly let you go.
No more your nice fantastick Pleasures serve, Your Pimps you pay, but let your Poets starve, They long in vain for better Usage hop'd, Till quite undone and tir'd, they dropt and dropt; Not one is left will write for thin third Day, Like desperate Pickeroons, no Prize no Pay; And when they have done their best, the Recompence Is, Damn the Sot, his Play wants common Sense, Ill-natured Wits, who can so ill requite The drudging Slaves, who for your Pleasure write.
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