My Friend, in troth, I'me glad to hear,
That noise of Clients fills thy ear;
Be sure let them not soon agree,
Before thou art well greas'd with fee
If thou wantest coyn, the Cockneys Guildhall
Or Westminster will to thee yeild all
Prethee fleece each City Coxcombe
When they for law to th' Hall in flocks come
Make them pawn their garments wedding,
Their Cupboards, Hangings, and their bedding
That when another Parliament
Shall borrow for the good intent
Of zeal, upon the faith call'd publick,
They may be poor and mangie job -like.
That when again the Pulpet clawes
Them to send plate into the cause,
Their spoons, and rings to th' Hall of Grocers ,
Their very wives may cry out no Sirs
But why dost bid me come to thee?
I have no term there, nor no fee,
What should a Scholler do at London
But to spend mony, and be undone?
When here with us a whole dayes expence
Will not swell up beyond one six pence
When we can play, and laugh, and drink
And still the mony slowly shrink,
When we here talk o'th' State as boldly
As ever the Mercurius told lye
When we of policy are still chattering,
(All which, 'tis true, we owe to Mat Wren )
When we know all the Pretty sputher
Betwixt the one house and the other
When we can over one full flagon,
Releive or plunder Coppen-hagen :
When we do know what is, what not is,
Related in the Hall , where Scottish
Raggs, once call'd colours, still remain,
Tell me what profit 'tis, or gain,
For me to take such useless pain,
To come and hear all there again.
But yet (remember now I promise
And will perform as sure as Rome is)
Near Easter terme, like arrow swift, I
Will ride up to thee, miles full fifty
Shalt see me come on Oxford beast,
Which shall have one good leg at least
Such a doughty horse upon,
Whose nose more then its legs shall run
So thin a Creature that I've tride it,
When its Master did bestride it.
I plainly through his belly spy'd
The boot and leg on th'other side
Next this, I'le get coat, boots, and spurs,
And then Sir quickly I am yours
I'le come unless (which happen may)
Gall'd Buttocks stop me on the way
Whether his ends be good or sinister,
G. now from head to foot's a Minister.
My judgment is he is turn'd Divine,
Only to have wherewith to buy wine
He came home with each empty pocket,
That th'one could not the other mock at
What ever others do, I'le swear
Safely he us'd no Symonie there.
He swears since He's a Country parson,
That he finds coming worldly cares on
Sayes, he believes since he has been there,
You Lawyers do not only sin there,
But that in Knavery White-Hall-gate ,
Out does all 'twixt Lud and Allgate
Our Friend P is by this at Paris ,
Of if not there, he very near is
God send him home whole wind and limb,
And keep his nose sound to the brim
Some rogues say, Tim provides for one day,
To wit the Sabbath or the Sunday
That at that time he alwayes is sick,
Enough to stay at home and Physick.
The Poet I confess doth stoop here
From what is writ i'th' hill of Cowper
But for new bayes what need care Denham ,
Who so long since did bravely win 'um
Should such proud Spirits alwayes do good,
What they perform'd would then be too good.
Thou next would'st have me turn Divine,
And Doctor too, indeed 'tis fine,
Physick and preaching ill agree,
There is but one Religio Medici
Paul and every other 'Postle,
(As the Scripture doth to us tell)
That had the gift of healing, did
Not cure the belly, heart or head,
By hearbs, or Potions, Purge or Treacle;
But by a plain down right miracle
I never heard that learned Moses ,
Whom God himself for Prophet chose his,
In Egypt was Physitian, though there
He kill'd as many men, as if he were
How pretty I should shew i'faith,
As in his Sums Aquinas saith,
With hour-glass in one fist, and
With Urinall in the other hand,
To have my Pothecary say
Such a Ladie's sick to day,
And straight to have my Sexton calling,
And ask me when he shall toll all in
If I must needs be both then name ye
What kind of Doctor you would have me
Chymick? alas the costly furnace,
Will quickly my small purse unfurnish,
Or Galenist? that wont agree
With my other trade Divinity
Nor with Preachers now the mode is,
To strive to make themselves Methodists
I wish you would a Lawyer had me,
That indeed had quickly made me,
'Tis they bring all unto their purses,
The Countries mony, and their curses
By poring on some mouldy Record,
And bringing fools unto an accord
With Poets Men so hardly deal,
They are scarce part o'th' Commonweal
Father Apollo , and Mother Muses
Gave all away to Pious uses
So that their Children must fair ill,
That have nought left them but the bare hill
Lastly, my Friend you are too hard,
To challenge a small Oxford Bard,
To send you verse in hungry Lent,
A fasting time and Paenitent;
When I should be confessing sins,
Of mine and too of other mens
You'd force me to commit one more,
(And sure t'were not the least o'th' score)
To make bad Rythmes: which needs are dismal,
When Stomack's great, and Commons is small
To tell y'a plain, but Christian truth,
Verse must be fat, that would be smooth.
An Army said the King of Sweden
(He that did know so well to lead one)
Is a great beast, which if you draw,
You must begin first from the maw.
So say I of the beast a Poet.
(And all our Rithming Kindred know it)
Who ere intend a Poem to make,
He must begin first with his stomack,
Good sooth at this dull time o'th' year,
When we must drink plain physick beer,
When all to temperance are bent here,
To expiate the sins o'th' Winter.
When we must leave our former merr'ment,
Because forsooth our bloods now ferment
When we must no more Taverns survey,
But be content with juyce of scurvey
When such thin Commons do us serve,
As would a very Spaniard starve:
When wee've such fish set on our board,
Which scarce your fish whores would afford,
Without stop'd nose to look upon,
Nor swear 'tis sweet, though 'twere her own.
At this lean time I say, troth, scarce I
Can write as well as P from Jersey
Whose Rythmes were yet so paultry that
All Men that heard them wish'd his fate.
Pray'd rather then such stuffe to hear,
They might with th'Author loose each ear
Upon my conscience such a mood in,
As I am now, was learn'd John Goodwin ,
When he so high of Worster fight,
In Elemosinary verse did write,
Such Rythmes the King might thank that day,
Which forced him to run away,
Out of their sound that would have more
Grated his ears then's loss before
(In such a meager season now
By all the Poets hills I vow)
Should I be forc'd my muse to raise,
She'd sound as bad as Sterries praise
I think I should come short of Wither ,
Whose quill had ink, but not one feather
Nor in this humour verse can I brew,
Better then Psalmes turn'd out of Hebrew
Unhappy Psalmes! that so long lasted
To be at length so metaphrasted,
By good old provost Francis Rous ,
A member of the other house
Who with much pains and many a pang,
At last made Davids Lute cry twang.
The sacred harp so sadly by him strung,
Seems as if still it one the Willowes hung
Then be content till after Easter,
By that I'll cheer my Muse, and feast her.
And then (God send it prove no lie,)
She that cannot now creep, shall flie.