To a Friend ("I wrote a letter long ago")

I wrote a letter long ago,
But did not like it, you must know,
So rather chose to take my time,
And write my own defence in rhime,
Though not in your be-crabbed stile,
To spatter, threaten, and revile;
Nor with a cruel aggravation,
Remind you of each obligation.

Tho' Fortune, (may the devil have her)
Ne'er gave it, me, to do a favour,
Never dropt an ingot at my door,
But kept me ever, ever poor.
What matters then all inclination,
It is the deed gets reputation;
The heart, the will, are both as nought,
The poor must always be in fault,
And if, when wrong'd, he makes defence,
Each word is constru'd insolence.
His obligations may enslave him,
But all his truth can never save him.
Two at a time, was it not hard?
Lashing away at one poor bard,
In whipcord rhimes, enough to flea,
A puny, thin-skinn'd scribe like me.
Howe'er, I rest, with this content,
I'm of your charges innocent,
And shou'd your friendship me forsake,
I will one observation make;
Where fortune smiles not, friendship's weak,
The slightest fault the chain will break;
In doing good we soon are tir'd,
Except by interest we are hir'd,
Lest to some gain our labours point,
Friendship is soon put out of joint:
It is in nature, not in you,
And with us from the cradle grew;
I do not say, that you're to blame,
For I myself might prove the same,
Had I, as you did, ev'ry day,
Thrown some advantage in your way,
I might have sicken'd at the thought,
To be too kind, may be a fault.
By some I'm flatter'd, some caress'd,
I stand a tiptoe with the best.
To say I want, wou'd not be true,
I eat and drink, as well as you,
And have by far a greater share
Of wholesome ale, and wholesome air;
Wines of the best, each day I drink,
I can't be badly off I think.

Although your lines were harsh and rude,
You ne'er shall say, ingratitude
Inherits any part of me,
'Till I have lost my memory.
I know you fear'd nor sun nor shower,
To do what service in your power;
It wou'd be worldly, base, unkind,
To shut such actions from my mind;
Tho' poor, I find, that ev'ry day,
Throws some new friend into my way,
And tho' they wish, and treat me well,
They ne'er shall make my heart rebel
Against a M—s or a R—e,
For all the gewgaws of the globe.
Then let not meer conjecture breed
Her airy crimes, 'tis hard indeed,
Beneath imagin'd ills to groan,
Which fancy's fertile hand has sown,
For in good faith, I shou'd not choose
So old and rough a friend to loose:
Howe'er tenacious I may be,
Rebukes appear less harm in thee,
Because I know, thy only aim,
Was to have handed me to fame.

Enough of this, I hope an answer,
Without abuse too, if you can sir.