Letter in Verse

If I write not to you
As I gladly would do
To a Man of your Mettle & Sense,
'Tis a Fault I must own
For which I'll attone
When I take my Departure from hence.

To tell you ye Truth,
I'm a queer kind of Youth
And I care not if all ye world knows it;
Whether Sloven, or Beau,
In Square, Alley, or Row,
At Whitehall, in ye court, or ye closet.

Having written thus much
In honest high Dutch,
I must now take a nobler still up:
Give my Fancy, a prick,
My Invention, a flick,
And my Genius a pretty smart Fillip.

For the Bus'ness in hand
You are to understand,
Is indeed neither trifling nor small:
But wch you may transact
If your scull is not crackt
As well as ye best of them all.

And so may your Dear Wife
Be ye joy of your Life,
And of all our brave troops ye Commandress,
As you shall convey
What herein I say
To ye very fair Lady, my Laundress.

That to Town I shall trot
(No I Lie, I shall not,
For to Town I shall jog in ye stage)
On October ye Twentieth,
For my Father consenteth
To make me ye Flower of ye Age.

So bid her prepare
Every Table & Chair,
And warm well my Bed by ye Fire,
And if this be not done
I shall break her Back bone
As sure as I ever come nigh her.

I am Jovial & Merry,
Have writ till I'm weary,
Am become, with a great deal of Talking, hoarse:
So farewell--sweet Lad!
Is all I shall add,
Except yr obedt stalking Horse.