A poet, the last thing that earth does breed,Whose wit, for sixpence, any one may read.Hang the poor lover, and his pedigree;The thriving merchant, or fat judge, give me.Love truly none, but seem in love with all,And at old friends to thy new lovers rail.Sometimes deny, 'twill appetite procure;The sharp-set hawks will stoop to any lure.Then grant again, lest he a habit getOf living from thee; but be sure thou letNo empty lover in; murmur sometimes,And at first hurt, reproach him with thy crimes.Seem jealous, when thou'st been thyself to blame;