TOR wit's keen fatire, and this laughing ftage,
What theme fo fruitful as a Bankrupt Age?
For not confin'd to commerce is the curse,
The head is near as empty as the purse;
Equally funk, our credit and our wit,
Nor is the fage more folvent than the cit;
All these but foft, ere thus abroad we roam,
Were it not prudent firft to look at home?
You, gentle Sirs, have giv'n me credit long,
And took my word for many an idle fong;
But if exhausted, I give notes to-day,-
For wit and humour, which I cannot pay,
I must turn Bankrupt too, and hop away.
Unless indeed, I modifhly apply,
For leave to fell my works by lottery.
Tho' few will favour, where's no cath to fee 'em,
Poor hopes, that way to part with my Museum;
My old friend, Smirk, indeed, may lend his aid,
And fell by auction all my stock in trade;
His placid features, and imploring eye,
May tempt perhaps the tardy town to buy ;
His winning manner, and his soft address,
To other fales of mine have given fuccefs;
But after all, my ever honour'd friends,
On you alone my fate this night depends;
I've fought fome battles, gain'd fome vict'ries here,
And little thought a culprit to appear
Before this houfe; but if refolv'd you go
To find me guilty, or to make me so,
To grant ine neither wit, nor tafte, nor fenfe,
Vain were my plea, and useless my defence.
But ftill, I will not fteal, I will not beg,
Tho' I've a paffport in this wooden leg.
B 3