一个曾经写过笔的不幸的人，活着不是为了取悦自己，而是为了取悦别人;总是苦干，浪费生命和鲜血，却只吃你认为好的东西。诗该得到什么赞美，然而每个傻瓜都能叫诗人饿死。那个笨手笨脚的好色之徒一心要报仇，因为他以为他自己，或者妓女，是要报仇的;从莱顿霍尔到路德盖特都在战斗。如果没有对反基督者和法国的恐惧，在最好的时代，贫穷的诗人靠偶然生存。你要不就是不来，要不，就像你招呼某个老熟人那样，到这儿来了，满不在乎，张着呵欠嘟囔着:你在这儿睡过头了吗?我发誓你可以;你的大部分才能都隐藏在另一个方面。你喜欢听一些奇异的故事，孤独的钟声，或者爱尔兰鲸鱼。新闻是你的食物，你可以为自己和周围的人提供足够的食物。 One theatre there is, of vast resort, Which whilome of Requests was called the Court; But now the great exchange of news 'tis hight, And full of hum and buzz from noon till night. Up stairs and down you run, as for a race, And each man wears three nations in his face. So big you look, though claret you retrench, That, armed with bottled ale, you huff the French. But all your entertainment still is fed By villains in our own dull island bred. Would you return to us, we dare engage To show you better rogues upon the stage. You know no poison but plain ratsbane here; Death's more refined, and better bred elsewhere. They have a civil way in Italy, By smelling a perfume to make you die; A trick would make you lay your snuff-box by. Murder's a trade, so known and practised there, That 'tis infallible as is the chair. But mark their feasts, you shall behold such pranks! The Pope says grace, but 'tis the devil gives thanks.