Epistle VI. The Answer

MY Friend, in troth, I'm glad to hear,
That noise of Clients fills thy ear;
Be sure let them not soon agree,
Before thou art well greas'd with fec.
If thou wantest coyn, the Cockneys Guild-hall,
Or Westminster will to thee yield all:
Prithee sleece each City Cox-comb,
When they for law to th' Hall in flocks come:
Make them pawn their garments wedding;
Their Cup-boards, Hangings, and their bedding;
That when another Parliament
Shall borrow for the good intent
Of zeal, upon the faith call'd publick;
They may be poor and mangie Job-like:
That when again the Pulpit clawes
Them to send plate into the Cause,
Their spoons, and rings to th' Hall of Grocers,
Their very wives may cry out no Sirs.

But why dost bid me come to thee?
I have no term there, nor no fee;
What should a Scholar do at London,
But to spend money, and be undone?
When here with us a whole daies expence,
Will not swell up beyond one six pence:
When we can play, and laugh, and drink,
And still the money slowly shrink;
When we here talk o'th' State as boldly,
As ever the Mercurius told lye.
When we of policy are still chattering,
(All which, 'tis true, we owe to Mat. Wren)
When we know all the Pretty sputher,
Betwixt the one house and the other:
When we can over one full flagon,
Relieve or plunder Coppen-hagen:
When we do know what is, what not is,
Related in the Hall, where Scottish
Rags, once call'd colours, still remain;
Tell me what profit 'tis, or gain,
For me to take such useless pain,
To come and hear all there again.

But yet (remember now I promise,
And will perform as sure as Rome is.)
Near Easter term, like arrow swift, I
Will ride up to thee, miles full fifty.
'Shalt see me come on Oxford beast,
Which shall have one good leg at least;
Such a doughty horse, upon
Whose nose more then its legs shall run:
So thin a Creature that I've tride it,
When its Master did bestride it:
I plainly through his belly spy'd
The boot and leg on th' other side:
Next this, I'll get coat, boots, and spurs,
And then Sir quickly I am yours:
I'll come unless (which happen may)
Gall'd Buttocks stop me on the way.

Whether his ends be good or sinister,
G. now from head to foot's a Minister:
My judgement is he is turn'd Divine,
Only to have therewith to buy wine:
He came home with each empty pocket,
That th' one could not the other mock at:
What ever others do I'll swear
Safely, he us'd no Symonie there:
He swears since He's a Countrey Parson,
That he finds coming worldly cares on:
Sayes, he believes since he has been there,
You Lawyers do not only sin there;
But that in Knavery White-Hall-gate,
Out-does all 'twixt Lud and Algate.

Our Friend P. is by this at Paris;
Or if not there, he very near is:
God send him home whole wind and limb,
And keep his nose sound to the brim.

Some rogues say, Tim provides for one day,
To wit, the Sabbath or the Sunday:
That at that time he alwaies is sick,
Enough to stay at home and Physick.

The Poet I confess doth stoop here,
From what is writ i'th' hill of Cowper:
But for new bayes what need care D.
Who so long since did bravely win 'um:
Should such proud Spirits alwaies do good,
What they perform'd would then be too good.

Thou next would'st have me turn Divine,
And Doctor too, indeed 'tis fine,
Physick and preaching ill agree,
There is but one Religio Medici.
Paul and every other 'postle,
(As the Scripture doth to us tell)
That had the gift of healing, did
Not cure the belly, heart or head,
By Herbs, or Potions, Purge or Treacle
But by a plain down-right miracle.
I never heard that learned Moses,
Whom God himself for Prophet chose his,
In Egypt was Physician, though there
He kill'd as many men, as if he were.
How pretty I should shew I'faith,
(As in his Sums Aquinas saith)
With hour-glass in one fist, and
With Urinal in the other hand:
To have my Pothecary say,
Such a Ladie's sick to day;
And straight to have my Sexton calling,
And ask me when he shall toll all in.
If I must needs be both, then name ye
what kind of Doctor you would have me:
Chymick? alas the costly Furnace,
Will quickly my small purse unfurnish;
Or Galenist? that won't agree
With my other trade Divinity:
Nor with Preachers now the mode is,
To strive to make themselves Methodists.
I wish you would a Lawyer had me,
That indeed had quickly made me;
'Tis they bring all unto their purses,
The Countreys money, and their curses,
By poring on some mouldy Record,
And bringing fools unto an accord.
With Poets Men so hardly deal,
They are scarce part o'th' Common-weal.
Father Apello, and Mother Muses,
Gave all away to Pious uses:
So that their Children must fair ill,
That have nought left them but the bare hill.

Lastly, my Friend, you are too hard,
To challenge a small Oxford Bard,
To send you verse in hungry Lent,
A fasting time, and Penitent:
When I should be confessing sins
Of mine, and too of other mens;
You'd force me to commit one more,
(And sure 'twere not the least o'th' score)
To make bad Rhithmes: which needs are dismal,
When Stomach's great, and Commons is small:
To tell y'a plain, but Christian truth,
Verse must be fat, that would be smooth.
An Army (said the King of Sweden,
(He that did know so well to lead one)
Is a great beast, which if you draw,
You must begin first from the maw.
So say I of the beast a Poet,
(And all our Rhithming Kindred know it)
Who ere intend a Poem to make,
He must beging first with his stomach;
Good sooth, at this dull time o'th year,
When we must drink plain physick beer;
When all to temperance are bent here,
To expiate the sins o'th Winter:
When we must leave our former merr'ment;
Because forsooth our blouds now ferment:
When we must no more Taverns survey,
But be content with juyce of Scurvey:
When such thin Commons do us serve,
As would a very Spaniard starve:
When we've such fish, set on our board,
Which scarce your fish-whores would afford,
Without stop'd nose to look upon;
Nor swear 'tis sweet, though 'twere her own:
At this lean time I say, troth, scarce I
Can write as well as P. from Jersey:
Whose Rhythmes were yet so paultry that
All men that heard them, wish'd his fate:
Pray'd rather then such stuff to hear,
They might with th' Author loose each ear.
Upon my conscience such a mood in,
As I am now, was learn'd John Goodwin,
When he so high of Worster fight,
In Elimosynary verse did write:
Such Rhythmes the King might thank that day,
Which forced him to run away,
Out of their sound that would have more
Grated his ears then's loss before:

(In such a meagre season now
By all the Poets hills I vow)
Should I be forc'd my muse to raise,
She'd sound as bad as Sterries praise:
I think I should come short of Wither,
Whose quill had ink, but not one feather:
Nor in this humour verse can I brew,
Better then Psalms turn'd out of Hebrew:
Unhappy Psalms! that so long lasted,
To be at length so metaphrasted,
By good old provost Francis Rus,
A Member of the other House:
Who with much pains and many a pang,
At last made Davids Lute cry twang:
The sacred Harp so sadly by him strung,
Seems as if still it on the Willows hung.

Then be content till after Easter,
By that I'll cheer my Muse, and feast her
And then (God send it prove no lie,)
She that can't now creep, shall flie.