Epistle XIV. To his Friend W. C.

Dear Brother Will. thy dearer John and I,
Now happy in each others company,
Send thee this greeting, and do wish that we,
By thy addition, may be made up three;
Two make no sport, they can but sit and sip;
Here's t'you, and thank you's no good fellowship.
We're Melancholy 'cause we drink alone,
For John and I together spell but one:
Three is the perfect number, that is able
To difference a solitude from a rabble.

Here, if we mix with company, 'tis such
As can say nothing, though they talk too much:
Here we learn Georgicks, here the Bucolicks,
Which building's cheapest, timber, stone, or bricks.
Here's Adams natural Sons, all made of Earth,
Earth's their Religion, their discourse, their mirth:

But on the Sunday thou'ldst admire to see,
How dirt is mingled with Divinity.
Such disputations, writing, singing, praying,
So little doing good, and so much saying;
It tires us weak lung'd Christians, and I think,
So much the more, 'cause there's so little drink:
And that so bad, that we with them are faign
To go to Church and sleep, and home again,
Twice in a Sabbath, and to break the rest,
With tedious repetions, and molest
The Servants memories with such pitteous stuff,
As wisemen think once said's more then enough.
Thus do we spend our time, and meet with nothing,
But what creates our trouble, and our loathing.

Come then away, leave Butchers, leave thy Lord,
Our Countrey here shall both, or more afford.
Jack here's a Lord, a Prince, (nay more) a friend,
He and his bottles make the Vulgar bend:
And if thou didst believe him, or know me,
I am more Butcher then they two can be:

If all these things won't make thee come away,
I am resolv'd to thee-ward, if thou'lt stay.
Drink till I come, that I may find thee mellow,
'Tis ten to one, thou'lt meet or make thy fellow.