A parley with his empty Purse.

PVrse, who'l not know you have a Poets been
When he shall look and find no gold herein?
What respect (think you) will there now be shown
To this foule nest, when all the birds are flowne?
Vnnaturall vacuum, can your emptinesse
Answer to some slight questions, such as these?
How shall my debts be paid? or can my scores
Be cleer'd with verses to my Creditors?
Hexameter's no sterling, and I feare
What the brain coynes goes scarce for currant there.
Can meeter cancell bonds? is here a time
Ever to hope to wipe out chalke with rime?
Or if I now were hurrying to the jaile
Are the nine Muses held sufficient baile?
Would they to any composition come,
If we should morgage our Elisium,
Tempe, Parnassus, and the golden streames
Of Tagus, and Pactolus, those rich dreames
Of active fancy? Can our Orpheus move
Those rocks, and stones with his best straines of love?
Should I (like Homer) sing in lofty tones
To them Achilles, and his Myrmidons;
Hector, and Aiax are but Sergeants names,
They rellish bay-salt, 'bove the Epigrams
Of the most season'd braine, nor will they be
Content with Ode, or paid with Elegy.
Muse, burne thy baies, and thy fond quill resigne,
One crosse of theirs is worth whole books of mine.
Of all the treasure which the Poets hold
There's none at all they weigh, except our gold;
And mine's return'd to th' Indies, and hath swore
Never to visit this cold climate more.
Thē crack your strings good Purse, for you need none;
Gape on, as they doe to be paid, gape on.