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If it should trip, assist it with your hand;
You may lend feet, for you can make things stand.
One touch of yours can cure its evil, and then
'Tis made by your fair hand, not my blunt pen,
Useful for love, or slighting you'll it find,
For love before, or for disdain behind.
Be't as you please; to more it can't aspire,
'Tis all it can deserve, or I desire.

TO HIS FRIEND C. S. ESQUIRE.
INSPIR'D with plum-broth and minc'd pies,
This letter comes in humble wise,
To know how Sue and how you do;
Or whether you do do, or no?
Whether you Christmas keep, or not?
For here we such a mayor have got,
T. at though our taverns open stand,
Church-doors are shut by his command.
He does as good as say, (we think)
"Leave off this preaching, and go drink."
But this I doubt's no news to you,
The country's atheist part, part Jew;
And care no more for Christ or's mass,
Than he for them: so let 'em pass.
And could the priests be sure of pay,
They'd down with that, and t'other day.

Yet, spite of all our may'r could say,
We would not fast, though could not pray.
Here's feasting still throughout the city,
And drinking much (the more's the pity.)
And that's the cause why all this time
I did not answer your last rhyme:
Nor do I now; 'tis not my fashion
In verse to make a disputation.
Whatever Sue and you have writ,
Shows both your kindness and your wit.
But only I desire to know

If you're a member made or no;
For here we have a great ado
About our choice, whom, how, and who,
Elects, or is clected: some

To be made members send, and come;
While others, of the wiser sort,
Sit still at home, and care not for't.
Richard, 'tis thought, has no intent
To have an endless parliament;

Nor must they share his goods and lands,
For what he has he'll keep in's hands.
Much is not left to be divided,
The business has so well been guided;
Nay, he himself (I tell no lie)
Wants money more than you or I.
No reason, therefore, can I see,
Why you should bustle much to bę
A senator, unless it were

For honour, yet that is but air,

And not the sweet'st. or saf'st, but still
Depends on other people's will.

But trust me (Charles) you have a vein
That does more love and honour gain,
And longer keep than all the tricks
Of those that study politics.
Protection's needless; for (they say)
You owe no debts, that you can pay ;
To Nature one, which, during life,
You cannot pay, nor that
your wife,

Yet I would have you come away,
That though the house don't meet, we may,

'Tis good to be o' th' rising side;
When every one gets up and ride,
For as i' th' church, so 'tis i' th' state,
Who's not elect, is reprobate.

JUSTICE,

TO C. S. ESQUIRE.

I'VE waited long to find thee here,

Peep'd into th' house, but could not see thee there.
I went to th' other house, but they're so new,
They no such name or person ever knew.

'Twas for this cause my pen has slept so long,
I hop'd to see thee in that learned throng;
And did believe some borough would, in pity,
Have sent thee up to dignify our city.
But corporations do not well discern
What's for their good, and they're too old to learn.
Had our whole senate been such men as thou,
They'd not been routed, but sat still till now.
But they'd be meddling, and to voting fall
Against the sword, and that out-votes them all:
Had they observ'd thy counsel, they'd have beeŋ
safe;

Stick to the strongest side, and think, and laugh.
What matter is't, what those in office say,
When those that are in power do answer nay?
A cutler's shop affords us stronger law,
Than Cook or Littleton e'er read, or saw.
But be content, let them do what they will,
Be thou a justice: I'm attorney still.
A poor attorney is a safer thing
Now, than to be protector cr a king.
Our noble sheriff's a dying, and I fear
Will never feast us more in Taunton-shire.
Pray tell your lovely Sue, I love her still
As well's I dare: let her not take it ill

I write not to her; I've time enough, 'tis true,
But have not wit enough to deal with Sue.

TO C. S. ESQUIRE.

DEAR Charles, I'm thus far come to see thy face,
Thy pretty face, but this unhappy place
Does not afford it; and I'm told by some
That want of tythes makes thee thou canst not

come.

this time

Why (Charles) art thou turn'd priest? and at
When priests themselves have made their coat a
[crime?
And tythes, which make men priests, do so decay,
One other schism will preach them quite away.
Thou'lt ne'er become it well; for I do find

Wit in a pulpit is quite out of kind :
Thou canst not stand long, nor talk much and loud,
Nor thrash, nor cousen the admiring crowd ;
And (which is worse) though thou'st a face and

hand,

A diamond ring, white glove, and clean lawn band,
Able to tempt an abbess; yet, I find,
Thou canst not satisfy the lady's mind,
Whate'er the matter is.

But thou art wise,

And do'st best know thine own infirmities.
Let me advise thee (Charles) be as thou art
A poet, so thou need'st not care a ―
For all the turns of time: whoe'er did know,
The Muses sequester'd? or who can show,

That ever wit paid taxes, or was rated?
Homer and Virgil ne'er were decimated:
Ovid indeed was banished, but for that,
Which women say, you ne'er were exc❜lent at.
But (Charles) thou art unjusticed, I'm told,
By one, who though not valiant, yet is bold.
And that thou hast unfortunately met
The blinded scourge o'th' western Bajazet.
Thrown from the bench like Lucifer, and are
In a fair way to be brought to the bar.

I'th' interim hang 'twixt both, as law doth name us,
A billa-vera-man, or ignoramus.

But I can't learn wherefore it is, nor how,
Though I've inquir'd of both, perhaps nor thou,
Some say 'tis for thy valour, which our time,
In a wise magistrate, accounts a crime.

If it be true, thou hast ill luck in this,
To have two virtues, and both plae'd amiss,

[been

To thwart each other; when thou should'st have
A valiant captain, wisdom was thy sin,
And so uncaptain'd thee; and now the time
Calls for thy wisdom, valour is thy crime.
And so unjustic'd thee, unlucky wretch!
Two virtues want'st, yet hast too much of each!
Whoe'er compos'd thy mind play'd Babel-tricks,
Brought lime and timber, when he should bring
bricks.

But we live in an age so full of lies,

I dare not trust my ears, nor scarce my eyes.
I hope this is a lie too; but if true
'Tis an affliction (Charles) that 's justly due,
To thy desert; our state holds it unfit,
One man should be a justice, and a wit.
Go ask thy lady, if 't were ever known,
A man should be a justice, and do none.

Come be advis'd by me, set out a book,
In English too, where justices may look,
And learn their trade; let precedents of all
Warrants and mittimuses, great and small;
All alehouse licences, and other things,
Which to the justices instruction brings,
Be there inserted, that the age to come,
(The children of such men as can get some)
May glorify thy memory, and be
Thy praises' trumpets to posterity.

As from one looking glass, thrown on the ground,
In every piece a perfect face is found,
So from thy ruins, all may plainly see,
Legions of justices as wise as thee.

Now having taken all this pains to see
Thy worship, and can find nor it nor thee,
Pray come to T.-bring thy beloved Sue,
My Mat and I will meet with her and you.
And though my Mat's no poet, you shall see,
She'll sit and laugh with or at us, that be.
I'll make thy lady merry, and laugh until
She break that belly, which thou canst not fill.
Mean time pray give her one prolific kiss,
Tell her it comes from me, and if that miss,
Give her another, and if both won't do,
Do that with three which can't be done by two.
If thou com'st not, I shall have cause to curse
Tythe, like the laity, and it may be worse.
My sufferings are more than theirs can be,
They'll keep their tythes, but tythes keep thee from

me.

But if thou canst not come be sure to write, Don't rob at once my hearing and my sight. If thou bring'st not thy body, send thy wit, For we must langh with thee, or else at it.

TO C. S. ESQUIRE.

SINCE We met last, my brother dear,
We've had such alterations here,

Such turnings in and out,
That I being fat and breathless grown,
My side I meant to take was gone,
E'er I could turn about.

First I was for the king, and then
He could not please the parliament men,
And so they went by the ears:

I was with other fools sent out,
And stay'd three days, but never fought
'Gainst king or cavaliers.

And (brother) as I have been told,
You were for the parliament of old;
And made a mighty dust
And though perhaps you did not kill,
You prov'd yourself as valiant still,
As ever they were just.

You were engaged in that war,
When C. R. fought against C. R.
By a distinction new;
You always took that side that's right,
But when Charles with himself did fight,
Pray of which side were you?
Should I that am a man of law,
Make use of such a subtile claw,

In London or in Ex'ter;
And be of both sides as you were,
People would count me then, I fear,
A knavish ambodexter.

But since all sides so tottering be,
It puzzles wiser men than me,

Who would not have it utter'd;
What side to take they cannot tell,
And I believe they know not well,

Which side their bread is butter'd.
Here's fore-side, and here's back-side too,
And two left-sides, for ought I know,
I can find ne'er a right:
I've been for th' middle twenty years,
And will be still, for there
appears

Most safety and delight.

But if the times think that too high,
By creeping lower I'll comply,

And with their humour jump:
If love at th' belly may not enter
In an Italian May I'll venture,
To love the very rump.

So here's t' you (Charles), a rubber's to't;
Here's a cast more, if that won't do't
Here's half a dozen more, and
To every feather here's a glass,
Nay rather than I'll let it pass,
Here's a year's health before hand.

If loving it, and drinking to't,
And making others drink to boot,

Don't show my good affection;
I'll sit down disaffected still,
And let them all do what they will,
Until our next election.

But I'm concern'd (me thinks) to find, Our grandees turn with every wind,

Yet keep like corks above:

They lived and died but two years since,
With Oliver, their pious prince,

Whom they did fear and love.

As soon as Richard did but reign,
They liv'd and dy'd with him again,

And swore to serve him ever;
But when sir Arthur came with's men,
They liv'd' and dy'd with him again,

As if Dick had been never.

And when prince Lambert turn'd them out, They liv'd and dy'd another bout,

And vilify'd the rump;

And now for them they live and die,
But for the devil by and by,

If he be turn'd up trump.

Yet still they order us and ours,
And will be called higher powers;
But I will tell you what;
Either these slaves forswear and lie,
Or if they did so often die,

They've more lives than a cat.

Let the times run, and let men turn,
This is too wise an age to buru,

We'll in our judgment hover,
'Till 'tis agreed what we must be,
In the interim take this from me,
I'm thy eternal lover.

TO HIS FRIEND W. C.

DEAR brother Will, thy dearer John and I,
Now happy in each other's company,
Send thee this greeting, and do wish that we,
By thy addition, may be made up three ;
Two make no sport, they can but sip and sip,
Here's t' you, and thank you's no good fellowship.
We're melancholy 'cause we drink alone,
For John and I together spell but one.
Three is the perfect number, that is able
To difference a solitude from a rabble.

Here, if we mix with company, 'tis such
As can say nothing, though they talk too much.
Here we learn georgics, here the bucolics,
Which building's cheapest, timber, stone, or bricks.
Here's Adam's natural sons, all made of earth,
Earth's their religion, their discourse, their mirth.
But on the Sunday thould'st admire to see,
How dirt is mingled with divinity.
Such disputations, writing, singing, praying,
So little doing good, and so much saying;
It tires us weak-lung'd Christians, and I think,
So much the more, 'cause there's so little drink;
And that so bad, that we with them are fain,
To go to church and sleep, and home again,
Twice in a sabbath, and to break the rest
With tedious repetitions, and molest

The servants' memories with such piteous stuff,
As wise men think once said's more than enough.
Thus do we spend our time, and meet with nothing
But what creates our trouble, and our loathing.
Come then away, leave butchers, leave thy lord,
Our country here shall both, or more afford.
Jack here's a lord, a prince, nay more a friend,
He and his bottles make the vulgar bend:

And if thou didst believe him, or know me,
I am more butcher than thy two can be,

If all these things won't make thee come away, I am resolv'd to thee-ward, if thou'lt stay.

Drink till I come, that I may find thee mellow, 'Tis ten to one thou'lt meet or make thy fellow.

TO HIS FRIEND I. B.

UPON HIS TRAGEDY.

THOU may'st well wonder, and my self should be
Dumb, if I should be dumb in praising thee;
Since I've occasion now to exercise
Sublimest thoughts, yet not hyperbolise.

But since we two are brothers, and subscribe,
Both volunteers to the poetic tribe,

I dare not do't, lest any dulman says,
We, by consent, do one another praise.
Yet dare applaud thy work, and thec in it,
So good in language, plot, and strength of wit,
That none but thou can equal 't. Not a line,
But's thine 'cause good, and good because 'tis thine.
So that my duller sight can hardly see
Whether thou mak'st it exc'lent, or it thee.
Let those whose anvil-heads beat all delight
Into a toil, at every line they write,
Now veil to thee and fairly yield the bays,
Since all their work compar'd with thine are plays.
So far I like thy worth, that I should be
Intic'd, if possible, to flatter thee.

TO A POTTING PRIEST,

UPON A QUARREL.

IN 1043.

I CANNOT choose but wonder, Mr.
That we two wise men had so little wit,
As without quarrel, jealousies, or fears,
Worse than the times, we two should go by th' cars.
I marvel what inspired this valour in you;
Though you were weak, you'd something strong

within you.

'Twas not your learning, neither can I think
That 'twas your valour, but John D-'s strong drink.
Love and good liquor have a strong command
T' make cowards fight, longer than they can stand.
I need not ask your reason, for 'twas gone;
Nor had you sense enough to feel you'd none.
Was it to show your mistress you could fight?
Living i'th' woods, you'd be an errant kuight?
That lady may have cause enough to rue,
That has no better champion than you.

You might have sav'd that labour, each man reads;
You're a wild man both in your looks and deeds.
By the wonders of your drinking men may see,
You are a hero without chivalry.

You thought a duel would your mistress please,
But prov'd a Thraso, not a Hercules.

I might have thought myself a worthy too,
Because I tam'd a monster, that is you.
Your zeal (methought) was greatly kindled,
That went to make a pulpit of my head.
Blame me not, though I struck, for I was vext,
To be so basely handled, like your text,
With subtile sophistry, that when you mist
In words, you would confute me with your fist,

But such weak syllogisms from you ran,
As I could never read in Keckerman.
That brain-aspiring drink so much did nip us,
You mistook Aristotle, for Aristippus,

"Twas this your brains with proclamations fills, And twirls them like Don Quixot's water-mills. Your head that should be king, was now pull'd down,

While that rebellious beer usurp'd your crown.
And your mechanic heels gaz'd on the stars,
As if they went to turn astronomers.
Your legs were altogether for commanding,
And taught your foolish head more understanding.
Your body so revers'd did represent,
(Being forked) our bicorned government.
Your wits were banished, and your brains were
drown'd,
[ground.
While your calve's-head lay center'd to the
Thus being black without, within a beast,
I took you for a tinker, not a priest.
In your next sermon let your audience hear,
How you can preach damnation to strong beer.
I have returned your knife at your demand,
'But if I've put a sword t' a mad man's hand,
Let me advise you, when you fight again,
Fight with a worse, or be a better man.

TO HIS FRIEND MR. W. H.
UPON THE DEATH OF HIS HAWK.

WHAT Will you suffer thus your hawk to die?
And shan't her name live in an elegy?
It shall not be, nor shall the people think,
We've so few poets, or so little drink.
And if there be no sober brain to do it,
I'll wet my Muse, and set myself unto it.
I have no gods nor Muse to call upon,
Sir John's strong barrel is my Helicon,
From whence uncurbed streams of tears shall flow,
And verse shall run, when I myself can't go.

Poor bird, I pity this thy strange disaster,
That thou should'st thus be murder'd by thy master.
Was it with salt? I'm sure he was not fresh,
Or was't thy trusting to an arm of flesh?
Or cause 'twas darksome did his eye-sight fail;
Meeting a post, he took it for a rail.
And yet I wonder how he miss'd his sight,
For though the night was dark, his head was light.
And though he bore thee with a mighty band,
Thou needs must fall, when he himself can't stand.
'Tis but our common lot, for we do all,
Sometimes, for want of understanding fall.
But thou art serv'd aright, for when thou'dst flown,
Whate'er thou took'st, thou took'st to be thy own;
And 'tis but justice that each plund'ring knave,
That such a life do lead, such death should have.
Rejoice, you partridge, and be glad, ye rails,
For the hawk's talous are as short's your tails.
If all the kingdom's bloody foes, as she,
Would break their necks, how joyful should we be!
Well, at her burial thus much I will tell,
In spite of schism, her bells shall ring a knell.

TO HIS SCHOOL MASTER, MR. W. H. UPON HIS POEM CALLED CONSCIENTIA ACCUSATRICIS HYPOTY POSIS.

SIR,

WHEN I read your work and thought upop, How lively you had made description

Of an accusing conscience, and did see,
How well each limb did with th' arch'type agree.
I wonder'd how you could imn't out so well,
Since you b' experience can't its horrour tell.

Trust me, I'd praise it, but that I suppose,
My praise would make it more inglorious;
In love to th' work and work-man, I thought meet,
To make your verses stand on English feet.
But whe'er well done or ill, I here submit,
Unto your censure, both myself and it.

I'm man, I'm young, unlearn'd, and thereupon I know I cannot boast perfection.

In fetter'd tasks, wherein the fancies tide,
Do what one can, the lustre won't abide.
No ideoms kiss so well, but that there is
Between some phrases some antithesis.
Whate'er is good in each unpolish'd line,

I count as yours, the faults alone are minc.
I wish each foot and line, as strong and true,
As my desire to love and honour you.

TOM,

TO HIS FRIEND T. S.

SINCE thou didst leave both me and this town,
The sword is got up, and the laws tumbled down;
Those eager disputes between Harrington and Wren,
At length have inspired the red-coated men,
Whose sides, not their heads, do wear the lex terræ,
With which they will rule us until we be weary.

We know not who's highest (whate'er people

brawl)

Whether Wallingford-house, or Westminster-hall.
You made a contest neither pulpit nor tub-like,
What's fittest, a monarchy or a republic:
But Desborough says, that scholar's a fool,
That advances his pen against the war-tool.
We have various discourses and various conjec-
tures,

Iu taverns, in streets, in sermons, and lectures:
Yet no man can tell what may hap in the close,
Which are wiser, or honester, these men or those.
But for my part I think 'tis in vain to contest,
I sit still and say, he that's strongest is best.
The world keeps a round, that original sin,
That thrust some people out, draws other folks in,
They have done they did not know what, and now,
Some think that they do not know what they may do.
But state matters (Tom) are too weighty and high,
For such mean private persons as thou art and I.
We will not our governor's calling invade,
We'll mind our own good, let them follow their
trade.

Lanch forth into th' pulpit : much learning will be,
A hinderance to thy divinity.

"Tis better to mind what will cloath ye, and feed ye, Than those empty titles of M. A. and D. D.

I have one thing to beg, and I won't be deny'd, You must once more mount Pegasus, and you must

ride,

O'er the county of D. whose praise must b' exprest,
In a poem to grace our next county feast,
Which will be next term; 'twas what I design'd,
But want wit and time to do't to my mind.
Thou hast subject and wit, if thou hast but a will,
Thou may'st make a poem, next that Cooper's-hill.
Remember thy promise to send me my book,
With a copy of thine, for which I do look:
And let not a letter come hither to me,
But freighted with poems, and written by thee,

And I out of gratitude shall take a care,
To make a return of our city ware.

I'll vex thee no more with this paltry rhyme, For fear it should make thee mis-spend thy time. And so I have this apology for 't,

Though it be'nt very sweet, it shall be pretty short.

AN EPISTLE

TO THE MERITORIOUSLY HONOURABLE LORD CHIEF
JUSTICE OF THE KING'S BENCH.

GREAT sir, and good! beloved and obeyed!
To whose great worth, honour's not giv'n but paid;
To whose great love and knowledge we all owe,
All that we have of law, and what we know ;
Who with strong reason, from the factious claws
Of wilful fools, redeem'd our sacred laws.

Full twenty years have I a servant been,
To this profession, I live by and in;
Eight years a master, and in all this space,
Have nothing done that mis-became my place;
Nor have my actions been derogatory,
Unto my client's profit, or the glory
Of this renowned court, and therefore I
Now humbly beg to be at liberty.
Justice and reason both command that he,
Who serv'd so long, should at the last be free.
For this I serv'd, for this our nation fought,
And pray'd, and paid so much; nor do I doubt,
T'obtain my wish herein, could I but find,
Desert in me proportion'd to your mind.
The benefit o' th' clergy I desire,
That I may be admitted of that choir.
Who their own pleas in their own names enrol,
And may perform my place without control.

[though

My lord, you've power and will to do't, and I am not worthy, if you think me so, Your lordship's test can constitute me that, Which my abilities can ne'er reach at;

My comfort is, 'tis what you don't deny, To some that read and write as bad as 1; And there's a kindness which belongs to such, As, having little worth, beg where there's much. Cæsar, that valiant general, was ador'd More for his liberal hand, than for his sword. And your great archetype, his highness, does, Derive more honour from the mouths of those Whom he hath gratify'd, than by the death Of those his conquering sword depriv'd of breath. Freedom's a princely thing to give, 'tis that Which all our laws do stand for, and aim at. And 'twill be some addition to your fame, When I with tongue, and pen enlarg'd, proclaim, 'Mong all your noble acts you made a room, In your great heart, for

[blocks in formation]

A. B.

DID I not find it by experience true,
Beggars are many, but thanksgivers few,
I had not dar'd t' invade your eye with this
Mean gratulation, whose ambition is
Put to be pardon'd, and the faults to smother,
With this which were committed by the other;

Yet since 'tis gratitude, it may please you,
If not as good, yet as 'tis strange and new.

Great Atlas of our laws and us, whose will, -
Is always active, back'd by unmatch'd skill;
To rule the nation, and instruct it too,
And make all persons live, as well as know.

Though being among the undiscerning throng,
You suffer'd once, you acted all along..
Your sufferings did but like the martyr's flame,
Advance your person, and exalt your name.
Disclos'd your virtues from their sullen ore,
Make your gold shine, which was pure gold before.
Your noble soul tells us from whence you came,
You've both the British nature and the name ;
By your example you instruct us what
Our grandsires were, and what they aimed at.
Ere the fantastic French, or selfish Dutch,
Were grafted on our stocks, our souls were such
As your's is now: now we by you may see,
What once we were, what now we ought to be.

Great men great favours to great men repay,
With great rewards, but I can only say,
Your lordship your great kindnesses hath thrown,
On one, that can return, or merit none.
But you must pay, and thank yourself for me,
With your own goodness; that vast treasury,
That found you love so generous and immense,
To cast on me, can find your recompence.

A gift of worth my fortune can't bring forth,
Proportion'd to your kindness, or your worth.
Let me send what I can, it will not be
Enough for you, though 't be too much for me.
What more to do or say, I cannot tell,
Much I can't do, nor can say much, and well;
But what I cannot do, I will desire,
And what I can't express, I shall admire.

[hour

May this new year be prosperous! may each Bring you new blessings, in a plenteous shower! May Heaven still smile upon you, and still bless All that you do, and all that you possess ! May you live long and flourish too, that I When I need succour may know where to fly, And find supplies! may all your actions be, As beneficial t' all, as this to me,

That when you die (great pity 'tis you should) Th' whole land may mourn, not as you're great,

but good.

And though I have not ransack'd sea and shore, To make you richer than you were before,

I hope this grateful, though but rude address, May please you more, though it hath cost me less.

SIR,

TO HIS FRIEND R. H. ESQ.

THOUGH I WOO'd you not in verse, or prose,
To make my name and me more glorious,
By being your clerk, the work is done, I find,
Not that I'm worthy on't, but you are kind.
Therefore these lines address themselves to you,
Not given freely t' you, but paid as due;
And that they may your kind acceptance win,
They've sack (their common badge) with them

and in.

And I presume, without much scruple, you
May drink old sack, although the year be new.
But though I am not rich enough to send
Gifts fit for you l'accept; nor do intend
T'enrich Peru; nor think it fit to give
Our betters that, by which our selves should live

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