Dear H ULSE,

When Ovid in his Exile wrote,
Low was his Verse, and barren was his Thought;
My Case is just the same, and for to mock it,
The Muse keeps equal Tenour with my Pocket,
And for th' Assurance of a modern Poet,
I think these Lines are Proof enough to show it
Rest that, howe'er, as 'twill — — can I be-song ye;
So as to get a little Cash among ye;
This Week, by Carrier- Haswel , you may send it
And, may the Gods that guard the Roads defend it
With that inspir'd, a gorgeous Sword I'll buy me,
And, plum'd with Hopes, to good Sir Robert hie me.
Present my self with this new-modell'd Trifle,
Which, should he chance to like, I'll lay my Life, He'll
Make every Wish, a Bard can frame, succeed,
And then my Muse, and I, are made indeed!
But stay — — One Word forgot — — with Love commend me,
To all such honest Fellows as befriend me
With their Subscriptions — — But I cannot on
For Rhime — — And so excuse your Pattison .

P. S. Septemb . the twenty-fifth, or twenty-sixth
As to my Lodging, for a Date, t'en't fix'd.

N. B . For Memorandum , you may put once
More, your Direction to your Friend, at Button 's.