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Now since our Sun

Has left this horizon,

Can all the stars, though by united pow'r,
Undark the night,

Or equal him in light?

And yet they blaze to make him lour.

That star that looks more red than others are,
Is a prodigious comet and a blazing star.

The world's undone,

When stars oppose the Sun,

And make him change his constant course to rest; His foaming steeds,

Flying those daring deeds,

I'th' stables of the north or west;

When we may fear he'll never more return,

To light and warm us with his rays, but all to burn. Heav'n made them all,

Yet not anarchical,

But in degrees and orders they are set;
Should they all be

In a grand committee,

In Heaven's painted chamber yet,

Sol would out shine them: give me Phœbus' ray, And let those lanthorus keep their borrowed light away.

Let's not admire

This new phantastic fire;

That our vain eyes deceives and us misleads,
Those bears we see

That would our lions be,

Want tails, and will want heads.

The world will soon into destruction rnn, [the Sun. When bold blind Phaetons guide the chariot of

PALINODE.

No more, no more of this, I vow,
'Tis time to leave this fooling now,
Which few but fools call wit;
There was a time when I begun,
And now 'tis time I should have done,
And meddle no more with it.
He physic's use doth quite mistake,
That physic takes for physic's sake.
My heat of youth, and love and pride,
Did swell me with their strong spring-tide,
Inspir'd my brain and blood,

And made me then converse with toys,
Which are call'd Muses by the boys,
And dabble in their flood.

I was persuaded in those days,
There was no crown like love and bays.
But now my youth and pride are gone,
And age and cares come creeping on,

And business checks my love;
What need I take a needless toil,
To spend my labour, time and oil,
Since no design can move.

For now the cause is ta'en away,

What reason is't the effect should stay?

'Tis but a folly now for me,

To spend my time and industry,
About such useless wit;

For when I think I have done well,
I see men laugh, but cannot tell

Where 't be at me or it.
Great madness 'tis to be a drudge,

When those that cannot write dare judge.

Besides the danger that ensu'th,
To him that speaks or writes the truth,
The premium is so small;

To be called poet and wear bays,
And factor turn of songs and plays,
This is no wit at all.

Wit only good to sport and sing,
Is a needless and an endless thing.
Give me the wit that can't speak sense,
Nor read it, but in's own defence,

Ne'er learn'd but of his grannum : He that can buy, and sell, and cheat, May quickly make a shift to get

His thousand pound per annum; And purchase, without much ado, The poems and the poet too.

EPISTLES.

TO C. C. ESQ.

INSPIRED with love and kindled by that flame,
Which from your eye and conversation came,
I proceed versifier, and can't choose,
Since you are both my patron and my Muse.
Whose fair example makes us know and do,
You make us poets, and you feed us too.

And though where'er you are is Helicon.
Since all the Muses proudly wait upon
Your parts and person too; while we sit here
And like Baal's priests our flesh do cut and tear.
Yet, for our lives, can't make our baggage Muse
Lend us a lift, or one rich thought infuse,
Or be as much as midwife to a quibble,
But leave us to ourselves with pangs to scribble
What, were we wise, we might well blush to view :
While we're invoking them, they're courting you.
Yet I conceive (and won't my notion smother)
You and your house contribute to each other.
Such hills, such dales, such plains, such rocks, such
And such a confluence of all such things [springs,
As raise and gratify the Muses, so
That in one night I was created ro-
That's half a poet, I can't reach to £T,
Because I'm not a perfect poet, yet,
And I despair perfection to attain,
Unless I'm sent to school to you again.

Alas, sir, London is no place for verse! Ingenious harmless thoughts, polite and terse, Our age admits not, we are wrapp'd in smoke, And sin, and business, which the Muses choke. Those things in which true poesy takes pleasure, We here do want; tranquillity and leisure. Yet we have wits, and some that for wits go, Some real ones, and some that would be so, But 'tis ill-natured wit, and such as still, To th' subject or the object worketh ill; A wit to cheat, to ruin, to betray, Which renders useless what we do or say. This wit will not bear verse, some things we have, Who in their out-side do seem brisk and brave, And are as gaudy as the chancellor's purse; But full as empty too. And here's our curse, Few men discern the difference 'twixt wit That's sterling, and that's not, but looks like it. Inrich us with your presence, make us know How much the nation does to Derby owe

But if your business will not be withstood,
Do what you can, since you can't what you would.
Those lovely sportings of your frolic Muse,
Wherewith you blest me, send me to peruse;
And out of gratitude I'll send you mine,
They'll rub your virtues, and so make them shine.
Your charity and patience will in them,
Find work t'acquit, what justice must condemn.
And if you please send one propitious line,
To dignify these worthless toys of mine.
The reader charm'd by your's, may be so bold
To read o'er mine, which else he'd not behold;
And then in spite of envy, pride, or lying,
Must say h' has met with something worth the
buying.

THE ANSWER.

WHEN in this dirty corner of the world,
Where all the rubbish of the rest is hurl'd,
Both men and manners; this abandon'd place,
Where scarce the Sun dares shew his radiant face,
I met thy lines, they made me wond'ring stand,
At thy unknown, and yet the friendly hand.
Straight through the air m' imagination flew
To ev'ry region I bad seen, or knew;
And kindly bless'd (at her returning home)
My greedy ear, with the glad name of Brome.
Then I reproach'd myself for my suspence,
And mourn'd my own want of intelligence,
That could not know thy celebrated Muse,
(Though mask'd with all the art that art can use)
At the first sight, which to the dullest eyes,
No names conceal'd, nor habit can disguise.
For who (ingenious friend) but only thee,
(Who art the soul of wit, and courtesy)
Writes in so pure, an unaffected strain,
As shows, wit's ornament is to be plain;
Or would caress a man condemn'd to lie
Buried from all humane society,
'Mongst brutes and bandogs in a Lernean fen,
Whose natives have nor souls, nor shape of men?
How could thy Muse, that in her noble flight,
The boding raven cuff'd, and in his height
Of untam'd power, and unbounded place,
Durst mate the haughty tyrant to his face,
Deign an inglorious stoop, and from the sky
Fall down to prey on such a worm as I?
Her seeing (sure) my state made her relent,
And try to charm me from my banishment;
Nor has her charitable purpose fail'd,
For when I first beheld her face unveil'd,
I kiss'd the paper, as an act of grace
Sent to retrieve me from this wretched place,
And doubted not to go abroad again

To see the world, and to converse with men :
But when I taste the dainties of the flood
(Ravish'd from Neptune's table for my food)
The Lucrine lake's plump oysters 1 despise,
With all the other Roman luxuries,
And, wanton grown, contemn the famous breed
Of sheep and oxen, which these mountains feed.
Then as a snake, benumb'd and fit t' expire,
If laid before the comfortable fire
Begins to stir, and feels her vitals beat
Their healthful motion, at the quick'ning heat:
So my poor Muse, that was half starv'd before
On these bleak cliffs, nor thought of writing more,
Warm'd by thy bounty, now can hiss and spring,
And ('tis believ'd by some) will shortly sting

So warm she's grown, and without things like these Minerva must, as well as Venus, freeze.

Thus from a Highlander I straight commence
Poet, by virtue of thy influence,

That with one ray can clods and stones inspire,
And make them pant and breathe poetic fire.
And thus I am thy creature prov'd, who name
And fashion take from thy indulgent flame.

What should I send thee then, that may befit
A grateful heart, for such a benefit;
Or how proclaim, with a poetic grace,
What thou hast made me from the thing I was;
When all I writ is artless, forc'd, and dull, ́
And mine as empty as thy fancy full?
All our conceits, alas! are flat and stale,
And our inventions muddy, as our ale:
No friends, no visitors, no company,
But such, as I still pray, I may not see;
Such craggy, rough-hewn rogues, as do not fit,
Sharpen and set, but blunt the edge of wit;
Any of which (and fear has a quick eye)
If through a perspective I chance to spy
Though a mile off, I take th' alarm and run,
As if I saw the devil, or a dun;

And in the neighbouring rocks take sanctuary,
Praying the hills to fall and cover me.
So that my solace lies amongst my grounds,
And my best company's my horse and hounds.
Judge then (my friend) how far I am unfit
To traffic with thee in the trade of wit:
How bankrupt I am grown of all commerce,
Who have all number lost, and air of verse.
But if I could in living song set forth,
Thy Muse's glory, and thine own true worth,
I then would sing an ode, that should not shame,
The writer's purpose, nor the subject's name.
Yet, what a grateful heart, and such a one,
As (by thy virtues) thou hast made thine own,
Can poorly pay, accept for what is due,
Which if it be not rhyme, I'll swear 'tis true.

C. COTTON.

TO HIS UNIVERSITY FRIEND.
DEAR CAPTAIN,

WANT, the great master of three greater things,
Art, strength, and boldness, givcs this letter wings
To kiss (that is salute) you and say A. B.
To his renowned captain s. P. D.

And to request three greater things than those,
Things that beget good verse, and stubborn prose.

The first is drink, which you did promise would Inform the brain, as well as warm the blood; Drink that's as powerful and strong as Hector, And as inspiring as the old poets' nectar, That dares confront the legislative sack, And lends more Greek than your grave patriarch. But you may see here's none, for if that I Had been well wet, these had not been so dry.

The next is money, which you said should be Paid, and it may be 'twas, but not to me. Why (friend) d' you think a man as big about As 1, can live on promises, without Good drink or money? how'll good sack be had? And who can live without sack, or with bad? Whate'er your academics talk or teach, Mind what they do, they mind not what they preach. In public they may rail at pope and Turk, And at the laities avarice have a firck,

And say their aim is all to save the soul,
But that soul's money, which does all control;
Which I do only by the want on't know,
But when it comes, thon't see 'twill wonders do.
The third is wit, which you affirmed here
Was in your mines, and digg'd up every where.
Jests, verses, tales, puns, satires, quibbles too,
And certain Bristol words that like wit show.
But none on't comes as yet, and all I see
Is, you've the wit to keep it all from une.
'Tis troublesome and costly to have much;
And if you had it, you would never grutch
Your needy friend a little pr'ythee do
Send me the last, and I'll get t' other two,

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THE ANSWER.

YOUR letter found us at good claret,
Such as you should be at, or are at.
The lines were good; but that I wonder,
As much as at a bladder's thunder,
That you who are not us'd to preach,
That never to that art could reach,
Your letter should so well divide
Into the first, third, second, head.
Pr'ythee tell me, just then came ye,
Before you writ, from C.
your
Or hadst thou heard some independent
First it, and thirdly it, till no end on't?
Thirdly from you is as ill sounded,
As mass delivered by a Roundhead.
Or if your old recorder should
Try to speak Latin that is good.

Drink, the first head, you wisely laid,
Drink always gets into the head.
Drink in plain silly troth you bad,
As strong as hop or furnace made,
Such as our sophisters do take,
When they old Latin jests would break.
Such as if your clients drink,

Of law suits they would never think.
Such as with beef and mutton were
Enough to make you knight o' th' shire.

But that it comes not, you may thank Your Thames, which swell'd above its bank, I think the London brewers plot

To increase the Thames, that we should not,
By our sublime and noble beer,
Shame all their puddle liquor there.
So great the flood here, that the people
Were wond'rous 'fraid for your Paul's steeple,
Lest we should hear next almanack,
How London bridge did fall or shake;
Lest it Westminster hall should drown,
And then no place should there be found,
Where men their gold and silver may
Upon the lawyers throw away.

But stay, may be all is lost,
Broke by the ice, or stopp'd by frost.
Perchance the boatmen let it run,
Which either of us would have done.
It may be they drew out the vessel,
To cheer themselves at merry wassail,
Perchance the barrel in the way
Did fall upon an holiday;
Upon a revel or a wedding,

Or else, it may be, it call'd at Reading,
Where the bold route did rant of late,
As if they drunk such beer as that.

But if at last it there arrive,

Drink it out while 'tis alive

Let not old gossips of it taste,
When they do praise their husbands last;
When they tell stories, and do cry
For their poor babe that last did die.
Nor it to country clients give,
When thou dost fees from them receive;
But make a fire, and send about
For all thy friends, the merry rout.
Fetch out the bowl, and drink it up,
And think on him that fill'd the cup.

Your next is money, which I promise,
Full fifty ponads, alas! the sum is;
That too shall quickly follow, if
It can be rais'd from strong or tiff.
Pray, pray, that each month we may choose
New members for the commons' house.

Pray that our act may last all year,
That we may sooner spend our beer.
Pray that the scholars may drink faster,
And larger cups, than they did last year.
Pray Heav'n to take away th' excise,
Pray, I say, with weeping cyes:
Pray our malt grow good and cheap,
And then of money expect an heap.

For poems: Tom desires me tell ye,
He minds not now his feet, but belly.
He must for pulpit now prepare,
Or make bills for apothecar-
Y, and leave off these barren toys,
Which feed not, only make a noise.
Yet he would fain from you receive
What your more happy Muse did give;
Which made protectors love to hear,
Though themselves wounded by them were,
Songs, which are play'd on every tongue,
And make a Christmas when they're sung.

Thus wishing you much mirth and wit,
As the lord mayor doth speak and spit:
Wishing and praying till I'm weary,
That you may drink the best Canary ;
That you may have clients many,
And talk in Guildhall wise as any;
That the rich Londoners may fall out,
And go to law till money's all out;
That every citizen hate his neighbour,
As his wife doth pope and Tyber:
That the grave alderman love no man,
More than they did the prayer-common;
That quarrels long may thence be spun
About a whistle or a spoon;

That th' itch of law may infect all London
Till you are rich, and they are undone ;
That you may keep your good dame yet here,
Or when she dies, may find a better;
That two hours' prayer and long sermon,
You may not hear above each term one:
And then your pew may be so easy,
That you may sleep whene'er it please ye;
That when from tavern late you come,
You miss the watch returning home;

Or if you meet th' unmanner'd rabble,
You may not outwit the constable.

AN EPISTLE

FROM A FRIEND TO THE AUTHOR, UPBRAIDING HIN WITH HIS WRITING SONGS.

DEAR friend, believe't, my love has spurr'd me on For once to question thy discretion:

And by right reason deifi'd by thee,
I blame thee for the wrongs to poesy
Thou hast committed, in betraying it
To th' censure (not the judgment) of each wit:
Wit, did I say? Things whose dull spirits are
Apt only to applaud whate'er they hear,
Be't good or bad, so throated to their mind,
Johnson and Taylor like acceptance find.

[ope

Why peddler'st thus thy Muse? Why dost set A shop of wit, to set the fiddlers up? Fie, prodigal! canst statuated shine By the abuse of women, praise of wine? Or such like toys, which every hour are By every pen spew'd forth int' every ear? Thy comely Muse dress up in robes, and raise Majestic splendour to thy wreath of bays. Don't prostitute her thus: her majesty, (Like that of princes) when the vulgar see Too frequently, respect and awe are fled, Contempt and scorn remaineth in their stead: But I have done, and fear I've done amiss, Being doubtful, lest thou'lt give thy fiddles this.

THE ANSWER.

DID I not know thee, friend, and that this fit
Comes not to show thy malice, but thy wit,
I might this action censure, and reprove
As well thy want of judgment as of love;
And think my Muse were doubly now forlorn
Below thy envy, yet not above thy scorn.

1. B.

But yet I wonder why thy reason thus,
Which thou call'st right, and's magnifi'd by us;
And justly too, should vote me indiscreet,
Because my poems do with all sorts meet.
How can I help it? Who can circumscribe
His words or works within the small-wise tribe ?
And you the hearer's kind applause do blame,
When charity bids us all do the same.
If good we must, and if the wit be such
That it does need, who would not lend a crutch?
We're mortal writers, and are forc'd t'a truce,
For he that gives, may well expect abuse.

Johnson and Taylor, in their kind, were both
Good wits, who likes one, need not t'other loath.
Wit is like beauty, Nature made the Joan
As well's the lady. We see every one
Meets with a match.

Neither can I expect, Thou more my Muse than mistress should'st affect: And yet I like them both, if you don't too, Can't you let them alone for those that do?

Now, if thou'ld'st know the very reason why I write so oft, "To please myself," say I. I know no more why I write more than thee, Than why my father got more sons than me. Nor peddling call't; for those in Cheap, as well As they at fairs, expose their wares to sell. But I give freely mine, and though it be To fiddlers, yet 'tis for a company; And all those gifts are well bestowed, which At once do make us merry, and then rich. If making sonnets were so great a sin, Repent, 'twas you at first did draw me in. And if the making one song be not any, I can't believe I sin in making many. But, oh! the themes displease you, you repine Because I throw down women, set up wine. Why that offends you, I can see no reason, Unless 'cause I, not you, commit the treason.

Our judgments jump in both; we both do love
Good wine and women: if I disapprove
The slights of some, the matter's understood,
I'm ne'er the less belov'd by th' truly good.

You'ld have no fancy blown upon, but must Have all new broach'd or cann'd to please your gust.

When this demand of yours is grown as old
As what you quarrel at, and as often told,
And their's, old wits, that will as much condemn
Your novelty, as you can censure them.
Now for those robes in which you'll have me dress
My homely Muse, and write with loftiness,
Talk of state matters, and affairs of kings,
Thou know'st we've beat our heads about those
Till I'd my teeth near beat out; after all [things,
My toil, the worms must turn poetical.
He that courts others' ears, may use designs,
Be coy and costive; but my harmless lines,
If they produce a laughter, are well crown'd:
Yet, though they've sought none, have acceptance
found.

With these I sport myself, and can invite
Myself and friends t'a short and sweet delight;
While all our tedious toils, which we call plays,
Like the great ship, lie slugging in their bays.
And can no service do without great cost
And time, and then our time and stomach's lost.
But I must write no more, for fear that we
Be like those brethren in divinity.
Whilst thou dost go to make my flash expire,
I raise thy flame, and make it burn much higher.
Only because thou doubt'st I should bestow
Your lines upon my fiddlers, thou shalt know,
That had they been upon a business fit,
And were I subject equal to thy wit,
They'd gone, and thou shouldst sing them too, and
Be both the poet and the fiddler too.

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Nor had we men been poets but for you:
'Tis from your sex we've learnt our art and wit,
'Tis for your sakes that we do practise it.
Your subtler sex first ventur'd on the tree
Where knowledge grew, and pluck'd the fruit,
which we

Did only taste, and that at second-hand;
Yet by that hand and taste we're all trepann'd,
And our posterity the doom endures;

You op'd our eyes, as you know who did yours.
By your command this song, thus rudely penn'd,
To you I do commit, though not commend.
To show what duty I'm arriv'd unto,
You cannot sooner bid, than I can do.
Nor can your active soul command and sway
With more delight and pride, than mine obey,
I will not say this poem's bad or good;
'Tis as 'tis lik'd, and as 'tis understood.
A poem's life and death dependeth still,
Not on the poet's wit, but reader's will.
Should it in sense seem rascal, low, and dull,
Your eye can make it sprightly, plump, and full
And if it should be lame, I hope 'twill be,
'Cause somewhat like yourself, more pleasing t'ye

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