Epistle XIX. To his Friend T. S.

Tom,

Since thou didst leave both me and this town,
The sword is got up, and the law's tumbled down.
Those eager disputes between Harrington and Wren,
At length have inspir'd the Red-coated Men:
Whose sides, not their heads, do wear the Lex terrae:
With which they will rule us until we be weary.

We know not whose highest (what e'r people brawle)
Whether Wallingford-House or Westminster-Hall:
You made a contest neither pulpit nor tub-like,
What's fittest, a Monarchy or a Republick:
But Desborough sayes, that Scholar's a fool,
That advances his pen against the war-tool.

We have various discourses and various conjectures,
In Taverns, in Streets, in Sermons, and Lectures:
Yet no man can tell what may hap in the close,
Which are wiser, or honester, these men or those.
But for my part I think 'tis in vain to contest,
I sit still and say, he that's strongest is best.

The World keeps a round, that original sin,
That thrust some people out, draws other folks in:
They have done they did not know what, and now
Some think that they do not know what they may do.
But State matters (Tom) are too weighty and high,
For such mean private persons as thou art, and I.
We will not our Governours calling invade,
We'l mind our own good, let them follow their trade:
Lanch forth into th' Pulpit, much learning will be,
A hindrance to thy Divinity:
'Tis better to mind what will cloath ye, and feed ye,
Then those empty titles of M. A. and D. D.

I have one thing to beg, and I won't be deni'd,
You must once more mount Pegasus, and you must
O'r the County of D. whose praise must b'expre ri
In a Poem to grace our next County feast;
Which will be next term, 'twas what I design'd;
But want wit and time to do't to my mind:
Thou hast Subject and wit, if thou hast but a will,
Thou maist make a Poem, next that Coupers-hill.

Remember thy promise, to send me my book,
With a copy of thine, for which I do look;
And let not a Letter come hither to me,
But fraighted with Poems, and written by thee:
And I out of gratitude shall take a care,
To make a return of our City ware.

I'll vex thee no more with this paltry rhythme,
For fear it should make thee mis-spend thy time:
And so I have this Apology for't,
Though it be'nt very sweet, it shall be pretty short.