An Epistle answering to One that asked to be Sealed of the Tribe of Ben

Men that are safe and sure in all they do,
Care not what trials they are put unto:
They meet the fire, the test, as martyrs would,
And though opinion stamp them not, are gold.
I could say more of such, but that I fly
To speak myself out too ambitiously,
And shewing so weak an act to vulgar eyes,
Put conscience and my right to compromise.
Let those that merely talk, and never think,
That live in the wild anarchy of drink,
Subject to quarrel only; or else such
As make it their proficiency, how much
They've glutted in, and letcher'd out that week,
That never yet did friend or friendship seek,
But for a sealing: let these men protest.
Or th' other on their borders, that will jest
On all souls that are absent; even the dead,
Like flies or worms, which man's corrupt parts fed:
That to speak well, think it above all sin,
Of any company but that they are in,
Call'd every night to supper in these fits,
And are received for the Covey of Wits;
That censure all the town, and all the affairs,
And know whose ignorance is more than theirs:
Let these men have their ways, and take their times
To vent their libels, and to issue rhymes,
I have no portion in them, nor their deal
Of news they get, to strew out the long meal;
I study other friendships, and more one,
Than these can ever be, or else wish none.
What is't to me, whether the French design
Be, or be not, to get the Valteline?
Or the States' ships sent forth be like to meet
Some hopes of Spain in their West Indian fleet?
Whether the dispensation yet be sent,
Or that the match from Spain was ever meant?
I wish all well, and pray high heaven conspire
My prince's safety, and my king's desire;
But if for honour we must draw the sword,
And force back that which will not be restor'd,
I have a body yet that spirit draws,
To live, or fall a carcase, in the cause.
So far without enquiry what the States,
Brunsfield, and Mansfield, do this year, my fates
Shall carry me at call; and I'll be well,
Though I do neither hear these news, nor tell
Of Spain or France; or were not prick'd down one,
Of the late mystery of reception;
Although my fame to his not under-hears,
That guides the motions, and directs the bears.
But that's a blow, by which in time I may
Lose all my credit with my Christmas clay,
And animated porcelaine of the court;
Ay, and for this neglect, the coarser sort
Of earthern jars there, may molest me too:
Well, with mine own frail pitcher, what to do
I have decreed; keep it from waves and press,
Lest it be justled, crack'd, made nought, or less.
Live to that point I will, for which I am man,
And dwell as in my centre, as I can,
Still looking to, and ever loving heaven;
With reverence using all the gifts thence given:
'Mongst which, if I have any friendships sent,
Such as are square, well-tagg'd, and permanent,
Not built with canvas, paper, and false lights,
As are the glorious scenes at the great sights:
And that there be no fevery heats nor colds,
Oily expansions, or shrunk dirty folds,
But all so clear, and led by reason's flame,
As but to stumble in her sight were shame;
These I will honour, love, embrace, and serve,
And free it from all question to preserve.
So short you read my character, and theirs
I would call mine, to which not many stairs
Are ask'd to climb. First give me faith, who know
Myself a little; I will take you so,
As you have writ yourself: now stand, and then,
Sir, you are Sealed of the tribe of Ben.