Epistle XXV. To his Friend Mr. I. B. being at London in the Authors retirement

Though we are now analys'd; and can't find,
How to have mutual presence, but in mind;
I'm bold to send you this, that you may know,
Though you're above, yet I do live below.

Though I've no bags that are with child with gold,
And though my fireless chymnies catch the cold,
For want of great revenues, yet I find
I've what's as good as all, a sated mind:
I neither money want, nor have I store;
I have enough to live, and ask no more:
No tip-toed turret, whose aspiring brow,
Looks down and scorns the humble roofs below:
My cottage lies beneath the thunders harms,
Laughs at the whispers of the winds, or storms.
My rooms are not in-lin'd with Tapistry;
But ragged walls where a few books may lye.
I flight the silks, whose ruffling-whispers pride,
And all the worlds Tautologies beside:
My limbs inhabit but a Countrey dress,
Not to adorn, but cover nakedness.
My family's not such, whose gentry springs,
Like old Mecaenasses, from Grandsire Kings.
I've many kinred, yet my friends are few;
Those few not rich, and yet more rich then true:
I've but a drachm of learning, and less wit;
Yet that's enough to fright my wealth from it:
As if those two seldome or never meet,
But like two Generals that with bullets greet.

I study to live plenteously, though scant;
How not to have, yet not to care, nor want:
We've here no gawdy feminines to show,
As you have in that great Seraglio:
He that weds here, lies cloyster'd in a maid;
A Sepulchre where never man was laid.
Ours are with Load-stone touch'd and never will,
But right against their proper pole lye still.
Yours like Hell-gates, do alwaies open lye,
Like Hackney-jades they stand at livery:
Like treasuries where each one throws his mite;
Glph of contraries, at once dark and light.
Where who so enters, is like gold refin'd;
Passing through fire, where Moloch sits enshrin'd,
And offers up a whole-burnt sacrifice,
To pacifie those fiery Deities.

I have no far-fetch'd dear-bought delicates,
Whose virtues prized only by their rates:
No fancy'd Kick-shaws that would serve t' invite,
To a fourth course the glutted appetite.
Hunger's my Cook, my labour brings me meat,
Which best digests, when it is sawc'd with sweat:
They that have pluresies of these about them,
Yet do but live, and so do I without them.

I can sit in my study soon or late,
And have no Troopers quarrel with my gate;
Nor break the peace with it, whose innocence
Stands only guarded in its own defence:
No debts to sue for, and no coyn to lend;
No cause to fear my foe, nor slight my friend:

Yet there is one thing which me thinks I han't,
And I have studied to supply that want;
'Tis the Synopsis of all misery;
'Tis the tenth want (Dear Friend) the want of Thee.
May we once more enjoy our selves, for neither
Is truly blest, till we are blest together!