To the Reverend Mr Francis Henry Cary, upon my fixing in the Country

Though all Afflictions that ill Fate can send
Against our Peace of mind their batt'ry bend,
We have a Refuge, if we have a Friend;
There we stand safe, his smiles our hearts revive,
Suspend Despair, and keep our Hopes alive.
Permit me then, if I may dare presume
To think your Breast retains for me a room,
Who not deserve that Friendship I implore,
But will endeavour to deserve it more;
Permit me, yet, to hope your pitying Ear,
While, by my sorrows past, I paint my present care.
Complaining, oft, brings the sad Soul relief,
And is a kind of Sabbath to our grief.

Young and scarce able yet to get my Bread,
My pious Parents mingled with the Dead;
Both happy now, free from Misfortunes power.
Who did pursue 'em to their latest hour.
Industrious, Careful, Frugal still they were;
But 'tis not Toyl, Industry, Art or Care,
That always gets a Portion for the Heir.
Ill Fate to their Endeavours was unkind;
They ne'r accomplish't what they oft design'd,
Nor left the Orphans a support behind,
No method, how to live, no stay, no hold;
Such was our Case — and Charity is cold.
Money is still an Antidote to Woe,
For that's a Friend, who ever is a Foe.
Nay, which was yet an equal wretched Lot,
The little I had learnt was soon forgot:
There was foundation laid for something good,
But rac'd before its use was understood.
So oft the first Bloom of the Spring is lost,
"Nipt with the lagging rear of Winters Frost:
But, ah! there's hope, that will again revive,
But Learning blasted once, no more will thrive.
My springing years, alas! will soon be gone,
The Winter of my Age comes rowling on:
The Grass does wither, and rough Winds do blow,
My head, alas! will soon be crown'd with Snow;
Ev'n now the Soil's too bare for such a Plant to grow,
Which ought to be well tender'd while 'tis young;
The Branches then spread wide, and it takes rooting strong.
Thus, e'r I knew to hope, by Fortune crost,
Future Preferment and my Hopes were lost.
Else I, perhaps, the Holy Badge had born,
Which is by you with so much Honour worn,
As does redeem it from the Atheist's scorn:
At least, some gainful study I had made
My choice, nor been to various wants betray'd.
Just as the Lark does from the Hobby flee,
So Man from Man in his Adversity:
When plung'd in Water, if they see we swim,
Some pitying hand may pull us to the brim;
But sunk, though all have skill, not one will dive,
The hapless Wretch comes up no more alive:
So when once poor, so tedious are supplies,
There's scarce a possibility to rise.
Thus, failing here, to servitude I ran,
And was a Slave before I was a Man;
A Slave to some of Arbitrary Will,
Learn'd in the snarling Art of using Servants ill:
As if the Hireling were of courser Clay,
Brown Earthen Ware; and of right China, they:
China, indeed, kept only for a Show,
'Tother's for use, and God wou'd have us so.
From thirteen Years to Thirty was I tost
In various Stations, and much time was lost,
In various Stations, here unfit to name.
"Servants of all degrees are but the same.
Though some will flutter in their Lords cast Cloaths,
The only Coxcomb that my nature loaths:
Trick't up in all his Foppery, yet, alas!
He's but a tawdry, thread-bare selfish Ass,
Abounds in Flatt'ry, Nonsense, lies and noise,
Despis'd by men of sense, and mockt by senseless Boys.
The servile, Rake-hell French in this excel,
And we, as servile, Mimick 'em too well.
Among these evils, Poesy, not least,
Took full Possession of my Careless Breast,
And did my talk, my thoughts, and very Dreams infest;
And, as it serv'd old Homer, heretofore,
Lent me it's helping hand to keep me poor.
However, thus far I my Fate must prize,
I saw the World, and did the World despise,
Its Vices, Follies, and its Vanities.
Some of my time was spent in Plays and sport,
And some (my Stars wou'd have it so) at Court,
Where the lewd fry of either Sex resort;
The Nices and the Flutters there abound,
Empty in Sense, and therefore loud in sound:
With Parrots, too, the trifling Dames keep touch,
Their Wit as little, and their Chat as much.
Some time ith' Temple too I past, among
That noble Science Fencers of the Tongue;
What honest Man wou'd herd with such a throng?
Shou'd a poor Country-man in Term-time stand
One hour to see 'em crowd along the Strand,
He'd swear the Locusts had o'er run the Land.
Thus, with strict Eyes, I every Vice did mark;
Cou'd tell who was the Punk, and who the Spark
That, after ten in Summer, walk't the Park:
Cou'd see a Playhouse Strumpet gull a Lord,
And fluttring Captains run from a drawn Sword,
And Statesmen laugh at breaking of their word:
Did hear Vice Vertue, Vertue Vice declar'd,
And so believ'd by the unthinking Herd;
The Flatt'rer put in trust, and who was just, Cashier'd.
Though plac't my self but in an humble sphere,
Yet cou'd I mark abuses, see and hear;
Nor did an Ass appear through all the Town,
But if, indeed, a Coxcomb of Renown,
But streight I cock't my Pen, and had him down.
Thus Error, in its rise, I strove to quash,
And where I spar'd the laugh, I gave the lash;
Hoping, at last, the vitious wou'd reclaim,
And better grow, either for fear or shame.
But ah! at last, I found, in vain I writ,
In vain I threw my Shafts, in vain they hit,
No Reformation follow'd, vain my skill;
Though every Dart was sharp enough to kill,
Yet Folly, Fops and Knavery flourish't still.
This made me, from my Soul, abhor the place
So prone to Vice, and so averse to Grace;
Repin'd at Fate that did condemn me still,
To what was most my scorn and irksom to my will;
And oft petition'd that I might not be
"A Vassal longer to Dependency.

O Heav'n! still wou'd I cry, encline thine Ear
To a long harrast Wretch's humble Prayer:
Riches I do not beg, nor length of days,
Which on the Vitals of the Judgment preys;
Let me not languish till my Sense decays:
But long e're second Childhood does come on,
End Lifes preposterous Journey, and be gone.
This grant, I may be Master of my self;
And live few years in peace, in ease and health;
Nor longer in this hated Town abide,
Where Factions, Biggotry, Profaneness, Pride,
Adultery, Murder, Treason, Fraud are found,
And whirl a lewd, fantastick, endless round.
In some far-distant Village let me live;
A little Income let thy Bounty give,
A little, yet enough, and not to spare,
For where there's too much cash, there's too much Care:
A Beechen Bowl, the Honour of my Hall,
Will serve to hold my drink, which shou'd not be too small;
Nor yet so strong as shou'd the Senses steep
In an unwholsom, and a Death-like sleep,
When waking, the loose Epicure, in pains,
Finds Tumults in his head, and fire shoot through his veins.
There wou'd I sport with what the Season yields;
Cold shades, and sunny Banks, and Flow'ry Fields,
Green Meadows, chirping Birds, and purling Streams,
These, with my Maker's praise, shou'd be my daily Themes.
There men are drest in their own native shape,
Not like Court Anticks, or the City Ape;
This clad in Silks, and, which wou'd make one sick,
The other wrapt in Furrs, two handful thick:
Cool Searge for Summer they convenient hold,
And Frieze, a Fence against the Winter's cold.
Design'dly they ne're do their Neighbours ill;
The Golden Age is extant with 'em still.
Their converse, free and innocent, does tell
What our grand Parent was before he fell.
Under his Vine each Man supinely lies;
While o'er his head the fatal Arrow flies,
That strikes th' ambitious in their full Career,
And fills the anxious thoughts of Kings with care;
Makes 'em despise the glories of a Crown,
And ly upon the rack on Beds of Down.
A plain Carriage, and an honest Soul,
A Friendly Gammon, and a Cheerful Bowl
Y'are sure to meet; Unknowing to deceive,
They wear their inmost mind upon their Sleeve.
If angry, as there's none from Passion free,
They'l not dissemble that you may not see,
But soon will let you know it, sooner will agree.
Thrice happy who the Country's Peace does know;
"'Tis an Essay, a tast of Heav'n below.
O Blessed Life! and O ye 'Immortal Pow'rs,
Here let me pass my few remaining hours,
Redeem the time I've lost, e'r the wide Grave devours!

Not without Tears, thus wou'd I oft complain,
Thus wou'd I pray, nor did I pray in vain:
Kind Heav'n at last inspir'd my Patron's mind,
Mecoenas, still to Charity enclin'd,
Mecoenas, noble, generous, just and kind:
Nor shall the grateful Muse forget his Name,
Till Vertue cease to be the Theme of Fame:
You know his Worth, too copious to be penn'd,
The best of Masters, and the kindest Friend!
His Bounty here has fixt my wandring thought,
And, without asking, gave the thing he sought;
Far from the City, far from noise and strife;
An easy, frugal, temperate, studious Life.

Now, Sir, you may conclude, I thought to find
All human things adapted to my mind:
The Country like Arcadia I believ'd:
Ah! thus too long I thought, and was too soon deceiv'd!

In vain we toyl and labour to be blest,
And with a swarm of thoughts our minds molest;
We grasp but Air when e're we reach at rest:
The slippery Wanton sometimes comes in sight,
But in a moment mounts and takes her endless flight;
And in ascending cries, There is no Peace
In City, Country, Waining, or Increase,
Till weary Life does end, and all our Labours cease.

By sad Experience, now, I find the Swain
Is worse than Heathen, more a Slave to gain:
His dullness but a politick disguise
To cheat those Coxcombs that believe they're wise:
Though not so fine, or florid as the Cit,
His brutish Cunning baulks the other's Wit.
For, like the Town, the Country's Custom's Slave,
More full of Fool, and quite as full of Knave:
And though Vice here is not so frequent known,
Because the Inhabitants are thinner sown,
Yet let regard to Quantity be had,
Drop Man for Man, and they are e'en as bad.
Half void of Reason, and quite void of Shame;
Before they know the Person, or his Name,
They shall expose, and gibbet up his Fame.
Since a good name's so pretious, of all wrongs,
The worst is suffering from malitious Tongues,
Which prove all Tortures end not with our Breath;
For an ill Tongue can wound us after Death.

Now what Relief? — yes, I Relief may get,
If I cou'd trace th' Example you have set:
For seldom, in that Function, have I found;
In all things, One so Orthodox and sound.
Cou'd I, like you, be Master of my Will,
Keep guard on every thought that's prone to ill;
Be ever studious of the publick Good
(As every true-born worthy Subject shou'd.)
Stand fast ev'n now when Popery does prevail,
And, but for such as You, wou'd turn the Scale.
Cou'd I (were I as able in my store)
With the same liberal hand relieve the Poor;
Suppress all vain, inordinate desires,
And clip the Wings of Love's fantastick Fires:
T' Apostasie and Errour be severe,
And make the vertuous Man as much my care:
Cou'd I be thus, and still be cheerful, gay,
And just (as Heav'n avert but that I may)
I need not value what the envious say;
Dauntless I'd stand their rage, and take the Field;
When Vertue's our Impenetrable Shield,
The World, the Devil, Flesh and their loose Agents yield.