TO THE Importunate ADDRESS OF POETRY

KInd Friend, I prithee cease t' infest
This barren Region of my Breast,
Which never can a Harvest yield,
Since Sorrow has o'er-grown the Field.
If Int'rest won't oblige thee to't,
At least let Honour make thee do't;
'Cause I ungratefully have chose
Such Friends, as will thy Charms oppose
But nought I see will drive thee hence,
Grief, Bus'ness, nor Impertinence:
Still, still thou wilt thy Ioys obtrude
Upon a Mind so wholly rude,
As can't afford to entertain
Thee with the welcom of one strain:
Few Friends, like thee, will be so kind,
To come where Int'rest do's not bind:
Nay some, because they want excuse
To be unkind, will feign abuse.
But thou, kind Friend, art none of those,
Thy Charms thou always do'st oppose
'Gainst all Inqui•tudes o'th' Mind:
If I'm displeas'd, still thou art kind;
And by thy Spells do'st drive away
Dull Spirits, which with me wou'd stay;
And fill'st their empty places too
With Thoughts of what we ought to doe.
Thoughts to the Soul, if they be good,
Are both its physick and its food:
They forti•ie it in distress,
In joy th' augment its happiness:
Thoughts do attend us at all times,
They urge us to good deeds, and crimes:
They do assist us in all states,
To th' Wretched they're Associates.
And what's more strange than all before,
They're Servants to the innocent and poor;
But to the Rich and Wicked, Lords or something more.