Epistle V. To T. S.

Thy Letter Friend, had the hard fate,
To find me with a busie pate,
Which still continues, and will do,
Till you meet me, or I meet you:
Than prithee come thy waies to me,
Or else I vow i'll come to thee.

So well I love thee that I doat,
And make this shameless Letter show't:
And it is more then I can do,
To live in love and business too.

P. B. and G. I had the luck
To see, and drink a little pluck.
Which they both said, they'ld do agen,
But broke their words like honest men,
And shew'd themselves as errant lyars,
As th' were 'prentice to the Tryers.
But will they e'r preach truth d'you think,
Who are so false in point of drink?
Since that some persons got some places,
Deceit and lying have been graces.

I'm also told P. P. was here,
But ne'r came at me though so neer.
Which I don't take amiss, for I
Suppose his love's not wont to lie
On the Male Sex, but by his Vote,
Breeches should vail to petticoat.

The drink that came from honest Tim,
Had two ill properties, like him:
'Twas long a coming, but alas!
In going swift as lightning 'twas:
There's none of't left, you may conclude,
By this, which is both flat and rude:
Nor drink I Sack; and so this time,
Instead of wit, you've only rythme.
Wit is scarce and wanting here
With us, as money with you there.

Our Prince of Poets, who once writ,
What all admir'd, for art and wit,
Did lately stoop his Muse, and make her
To write a Ballad of a Quaker:
Which I have sent thee here withall,
To see how wits do rise and fall:
Just as our drink is bad or good,
So verse is writ, so understood;

But oh the money (Tom) the money!
As strong as Sampson, sweet as honey;
How long! how long it is a coming!
Such reckoning, such receipts, such summing,
Belong to't, I shall choak I think,
Before 'tis melted into drink!
Those things you'l have me pray for, I
Can't find in our Church-Liturgie.
To you therefore I make my suit,
That you will set the boyes to do't;
For I am told the Directory,
And your new prayers made ex-tempore,
Are all for money very fit,
Because they're only made for it.

I like thee that apply'st thy parts,
To preaching and such thriving arts,
I prethee practise physick too;
For if one wont, yet both will do.
A handsome person with neat band,
Small cuffs, white gloves, smooth tongue and hand;
If both a Doctour and a Priest,
What Lady's able to resist?
You may talk bawdy freely then,
Before coy women and old men:
And be of no Religion too,
Yet profess all as others do.

While the poor Poet tugs for wit,
To make men laugh at him and it:
And nothing gets by all his pain,
But censures various and vain.
From such as say they Judges are,
And yet did never plead at bar:
Undo their malice that condemn,
Let them write while we laugh at them.
A Poem I have sent thee here,
That dies if thou shouldst be severe:
And cause I have none worth sending down,
I've bought one cost me half a crown:
And Dick Brome's Playes, which good must be,
Because they were approv'd by thee:
All which I hope will bring me back
What all so Love, and I so lack.
When my glass Beads to India come,
They'l bring me Pearls and Diamonds home:
And thou wilt like the powers above,
Return a blessing for a Dove.