Epistle IV. The Answer

Your Letter found us at good Clarret,
Such as you should be at, or are at.
The lines were good; but that I wonder
As much as at a bladders 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.
Prithee tell me, just then came ye,
Before you writ, from your C.
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 Latine that is good.

Drink the first head, you wisely laid;
Drink alwaies gets into the head:
Drink in plain filly troth you had,
As strong as hop, or furnace made,
Such as our Sophisters do take,
When they old Latine 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 encrease the Thames, that we should not,
By our sublime and noble Beer,
Shame all their puddle liquor there.
So great the floud here, that the people
Were wondrous fraid for your Pauls-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, it may be all is lost,
Broke by the ice, or stop'd by frost.
Perchance the Boat-men let it run,
Which either of us would have done:
It may be they drew out the Vessel,
To cheer themselves at merry Wssail:
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 rout 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 tast,
When they do praise their husbands last;
When they tell stories, and do cry
For their poor babe that last did dye:
Nor it the Countrey 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 pounds alas the sum is,
That too shall quickly follow, if
It can be rais' from Strong or Tiffe.
Pray pray that each moneth 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 then they did last year.
Pray heav'n to take away th' Excise,
Pray I say with weeping eyes:
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 toyes
Which feed not, only make a noyse:
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:
And that you may have Clients many,
And talk in Guild-hall 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 then 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 easie,
That you may sleep when e'r 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 out-wit the Constable.