Good Mr. Stitch, if 'tis your pleasure,
To come and take of me the measure:
I will confess the obligation,
And cringe unto a taylor's station.
Let any one say what they can,
I'll swear a taylor's more than man.
I can no more go decent out,
My coat is such an arrant clout.
And am now such a naked lown,
That I out-do the fam'd Tom Brown.
Fly to my aid,—your art come shew it.
Mount, like a prince, a naked poet.
Besides, good Mr. William Peter
Shall not be paid with scrapes of metre;
But I'll reward your gen'rous toil,
With what will make your pot to boil.
Tho' Satan should piss in the fire,
Cash will conjure him to retire.