Epistle II. 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 wondring stand,
At thy unknown, and yet the friendly hand:
Straight through the Air m'imagination flew
To ev'ry Region I had seen, or knew;
And kindly blest (at her returning home)
My greedy ear, with the glad name of Brome;
Then I reproach't my self for my suspence;
And mourn'd my own want of intelligence,
That could not know thy celebrated Muse,
(Though mask't 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 courtesie)
Writes in so pure, an unaffected strain,
As shews wits ornament, is to be plain;
Or would caress a man condemn'd o 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 boading Raven cuff't; 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 skie,
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 unvail'd;
I kist the paper, as an act of grace,
Sent to retrive me from this wretched place,
And doubted not to go abroad agen
To see the world, and to converse with men:
But when I taste the dainties of the Flood,
(Ravish't from Neptunes table for my food)
The Lucrine Lake's plump Oysters I 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, benumn'd and fit t'expire,
If laid before the comfortable fire,
Begins to stir, and feels her vitals beat
Their healthful motion, at the quickning heat:
So my poor muse, that was half starv'd before,
On these bleak clifts; 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 High-lander I straight commence
Poet, by vertue of thine influence;
That with one Ray, can clods, and stones inspire,
And make them pant, and breath poetick 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 poetick grace,
What thou hast made me from the thing I was;
When all I writ, is artless, forc't, and dull;
And mine as empty as thy fancy full?
All our conceipts, alas! are flat, and stale,
And our inventions muddy, as our Ale:
No friends, no visiters, 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 spye,
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 traffick 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 Muses glory, and thine own true worth,
I then would sing an Ode, that should not shame
The writers purpose; nor the Subjects 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 Rhythm, I'll swear 'tis true.
C. Cotton.