Shall I for these disturb my brains with rhyme?
For these, like  creep, or  climb?
Shall I go late to rest, and early rise,
To be the very creature I despise?
With face unmov'd, my poem in my hand,
Cringe to the porter, with the footman stand?
Perhaps my lady's maid, if not too proud,
Will stoop, you'll say, to wink me from the croud.
Will entertain me, till his lordship's drest,
With what my lady eats, and how she rests:
How much she gave for such a birth-day gown,
And how she trampt to ev'ry shop in town.