The Promise

THESE as I promis'd, Sir, I send.
'Tis the chief duty of a Friend
(If that great honour you'l allow)
To owe his Life, and pay his Vow.
He that to's Promise does not stand,
Is Knave and Fool under's own hand.
Yet 'tis not wisdom to appear
In Rhyme, when witty Crashaw's near.
A Fool that talks in a wise throng,
Libels himself with his own tongue.
A Face with native blackness tann'd,
Dares not before a Beauty stand.
My Muse is very black and low,
And yet not proud, as Proverbs go.
Nor, like the Gallants of her Sex,
Does she at greater Beauties vex.
She does not with pale Envy frown,
Because she wears the worser Gown.
Yet when her Service she expresses
To you, she'd wear her richest Dresses.
Alas! that makes her Wants seem more;
So Beggars richest rags are poor.