Epistle XXXVII. Upon the miscarrier of Letters betwixt his Friend and Him; An Execration

And why to me? dull scanner of the ground,
Was there no other pack-horse to be found,
To bear the weight of such a grand abuse
But only I? I'll wake my sleeping Muse;
And send her post to th'black abyss of Hell,
To fetch me curses, curses dyre and fell.
I'll mount on Pegasus, and make him go
From Friend to Friend, as swift as thou art slow.
Perfidious Traytor! could thine impious hands
Dare to miscarry, what true love commands?
Had it been news, or pamphlets, or the rude
Inventions of the cock-brain'd multitude;
New models of Religion, or the false,
Ly-legends which we here call Diurnals;
Had there been treason against the King or State,
They deserv'd thine, and thou hadst scap'd my hate
But these were embassies of souls that be
So pure, they dare dispute with purity;
That will not club with treason, nor betroth,
Their souls to schism, but are estrang'd from both
Had they been complements, or th'adulterate froth
Of ink-horn-wits, t' had ne'r incens'd my wroth.
For 'tis but reason such vain toyes as they are,
Should be dissolv'd to their first matter, Air.
Had they been meerly issues of the brain,
And had been lost, that might to work again.
But when the heart's engag'd, what pity 'tis
A child of that should ever fare amiss?
Hadst thou but known how sweet those accents were,
How full of love thou would'st have took more care.
Why didst thou go to stop that blessed Trine,
That was to be 'twixt their aspects and mine?
Do'st thou not know what good, what blest effects
The Land will have from such benign aspects?
Alas when Mercury doth meet with Jove;
Lilly can tell thee their portents are love:
I'm loth to study for some new found curse,
For fear I should be heard, and thou be worse.
First for thy Horses, would their teeth may be
Greas'd at each Inne, which none may help but me
May all their old diseases never fail;
Their feet have scabs doubled for every nail,
That thou may'st like Tom. Long for ever go,
And ne'r come where thou art assign'd unto,
And so may'st ne'r be trusted with a pack,
Unless of plagues, and may those break thy back.
May'st thou ne'r carry loyal letters more?
But Pockie-songs betwixt a Pimp and's whore.
But when th' sweat and travel'd all the day,
May'st thou have neither meat, drink, bread nor pay
May all the way be strew'd with Downes his men;
And thou escaping one, may'st meet with ten.
And may they take thy horses and thy store,
And bang thy sides because thou hast no more.
May all these plagues unite that they may be
As great a plague to thee, as thou to me.