To a Friend in the Country ("Spite of the hub-bub of the town")

Spite of the hub-bub of the town,
Between the multitude and crown;
To 'scape the sousing of a shower,
And crib unto myself an hour;
I in a coffee-house took shelter,
For troth it rained helter skelter:
I know what I had there to do,
So down I sat to write to you;
Yet I should be most glad to see
You do the same, and write to me;
Tho' now, you say, you spend your time
To better purposes than rhime:
Love has stol'n that heart away,
That us'd so wantonly to play,
On fam'd Parnassus' musing hill,
Or near the Heliconian rill;
Most glad I am; (and yet I pine
So dear a comrade to resign)
Most glad I am, the smiling boy
Has let you taste Hymenial joy;
The most substantial bliss of life,
A constant, loving, virtuous wife;
With joy I hear; in fancy see,
Nor envy your tranquility;
I wou'd not covet from a brother,
I only wish I'd such another;
A country-house as far from town,
A horse that I could call my own,
A dog and gun at my command,
Well match'd or trained to my hand:
To hear the bleating herds complain;
When land-storms drive them from the plain;
Or when at morn with joy they bleat,
Their fleecy friends again to meet:
And then reflect on what I've seen,
When I've in Covent-Garden been;
Where thieves and vintners, pimps and whores,
Croud around their hellish doors;
A tricking, flatt'ring, fawning race,
Who're glad to whisper your disgrace;
But loudly to your face commend,
And give you credit like a friend;
But soon they bring you to repent,
And raise your debt to ten per cent.
Yet hold, my Muse, I prithee hold,
The shower's o'er, my coffee cold;
Pray do not run me out of rhime,
Left I shou'd want another time.