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he printing of these rhimes afflicts me moreThan all the drubs I in Rose-Alley bore;This shows my nauseous, mercenary pen,Would praise the vilest and the worst of men.A rogue like Hodge[4] am I, the world well know it;Hodge was his fiddler, and I, John, his poet.This may prevent the pay for which I write;For I for pay against my conscience fight.I must confess, so infamous a knaveCan do no service, though the humblest slave:Villains I praise, and patriots accuse; }My railing and my fawning talents use; }Just as they pay, I flatter or abuse }But I to men in power a ---- am still,To rub on any honest face they will.Thus on I'll go; for libels I declare; }Best friends no more than worst of foes I'll spare; }And all this I can do, because I dare. }He who writes on, and cudgels can defy,And, knowing he'll be beaten, still writes on, am I. _London, printed for J. Smith, 1681._
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