To a weak Gamester in Poetry

With thy small stock, why art thou venturing still,
At this so subtle sport, and play'st so ill?
Think'st thou it is mere fortune, that can win,
Or thy rank setting? that thou dar'st put in
Thy all, at all: and whatsoe'er I do,
Art still at that, and think'st to blow me' up too?
I cannot for the stage a drama lay,
Tragic or comic; but thou writ'st the play.
I leave thee there, and giving way, intend
An epic poem; thou hast the same end.
I modestly quit that, and think to write,
Next morn, an ode; thou mak'st a song ere night
I pass to elegies; thou meet'st me there:
To satires; and thou dost pursue me. Where,
Where shall I scape thee? in an epigram?
O, thou cry'st out, that is my proper game.
Troth, if it be, I pity thy ill luck;
That both for wit and sense so oft dost pluck,
And never art encountered, I confess;
Nor scarce dost colour for it, which is less.
Prithee, yet save thy rest; give o'er in time:
There's no vexation that can make thee prime.