George Stepney (1663–1707)

WHEN money and my blood ran high,

My muse was reckon’d wondrous pretty;

The sports and smiles did round her fly,

Enamoured with her smart concetti.

Now (who ’d have thought it once?) with pain

She strings her harp, whilst freezing age

But feebly runs through every vein,

And chill’d my brisk poetic rage.

I properly have ceased to live,

To wine and women, dead in law;

And soon from fate I shall receive

A summons to the shades to go.

The warrior ghosts will round me come

To hear of famed Ramillia’s fight,

Whilst the vext Bourbons through the gloom

Retire to the utmost realms of night.

Then I, my lord, will tell how you

With pensions every muse inspire;

Who Marlborough’s conquests did pursue,

And to his trumpets tuned the lyre.

But should some drolling sprite demand,

Well, Sir, what place had you, I pray?

How like a coxcomb should I stand!

What would your Lordship have me say?