A LETTER sent from a Gentleman to his Friend.

DEAR Iack! I wonder what a devil
Obliges thee to be so Civil,
Thus long to stay in Countrey-village,
To minde thy Fathers Ploughs and Tillage,
When we, in Town, for our diversion,
Drink hard, sometimes, to cure a Tertian,
And twenty other things, as Hector
And VVench, which (Iack) thou mayst conjecture;
VVe want thee, 'Faith, to help us out here,
VV'are damnably put to the Rout-here;
For t'other day seven Bacchanalians
Fell briskly on us, they were Aliens;
And to those jolly Rites inur'd,
We drunk while drink could be endur'd;
Sev'n Brimmers in a Hand went round,
In which sev'n worthy Wights were drown'd
Poor Shallow Ned that night lay rough,
And ever since has had a Cough.
Which makes Him bark like angry Puppy,
'Gainst those who such large doses sup-ye;
But wenching He do's much delight in,
And is esteem'd an Arrant Knight in;
Besides, the Rogue do's know some women
That are not Whores, I mean not common.
To one of which, who he protested
Was with all Ornaments invested.
He led me—
When rest from drink had lent me leisure,
A Miss for wedlock (Iack) not pleasure.
I laugh'd in sleeve to think the Youngster
Imagin'd I would keep a Long-stir.
With Complements as for my life,
And all to yoke my self with wife;
Though as I live I still must own,
Her beauty might become a Throne;
But I, like Rogue, indoctrinated,
In such Intrigues devoutly prated
Much modish Nonsence; which as good hap,
Or Love wou'd have it, stir'd her blood up
With such delight that all our discourse
Was from our eyes, where Love had's Course.
So free that kisses were as common,
As those we give to naughty woman,
And mingled palms had bred such heat,
That all our Love came out in sweat.
Of which I this took Notice— Dammee
Madam, said I, your hands are Clammy.
She blush'd and look'd as if displeas'd
—When I to mend the matter—
Laugh'd at my impudence, and this pleas'd.
But I'le be short, this my first visit,
So well, on my part did solicit.
That ere months end to me, a whole-age
I of my Miss had better Knowledge.
But now methinks I see thy Grotto
Where on's inscrib'd the antient Motto.
Which us'd to me to be thy Story,
Debauch'd Young men, Memento Mori.
And now—
That thou mayst see I make no waste on't.
I have thought fit to give th' a Tast on't.