Matthew Prior. Dialogues of the Dead and Other Works in Prose and Verse. The Text Edited by A. R. Waller |
 |
|
| AN
EPISTLE
TO
Sir Fleetwood Sheppard. |
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
 | Matthew Prior. Dialogues of the Dead and Other Works |  |
AN EPISTLE TO Sir Fleetwood Sheppard.
When Crowding Folks, with strange Ill Faces,
Were making Legs, and begging Places,
And some with Patents, some with Merit,
Tir'd out my good Lord Dorset's Spirit:
Sneaking, I stood, among the Crew,
Desiring much to speak with you.
I waited while the Clock struck thrice,
And Footman brought out fifty Lies;
Till Patience vext, and Legs grown weary,
I thought it was in vain to tarry:
But did opine it might be better,
By Penny-post to send a Letter.
Now, if you miss of this Epistle,
I'm balk'd again, and may go whistle.
My Business, Sir, you'll quickly guess,
Is to desire some little Place,
And fair pretensions I have for't,
Much Need, and very small Desert.
When e'er I writ to you, I wanted;
I always begg'd, you always granted,
Now, as you took me up when little,
Gave me my Learning, and my Vittle:
Askt for me, from my Lord, things fitting
Kind as I'd been your own begetting;
Confirm what formerly you've given,
Nor leave me now at Six and Sevens
As Sunderland has left Mun. Stephens.
No Family that takes a Whelp,
When first he laps and scarce can yelp,
Neglects or turns him out of Gate,
When he's grown up to Dogs Estate:
Nor Parish if they once adopt
The spurious Brats that Strowlers dropt,
Leave 'em when grown up Lusty Fellows,
To the wide World, that is, the Gallows:
No thank 'em for their Love, that's worse,
Than if they'd throttl'd 'em at Nurse,
Were making Legs, and begging Places,
And some with Patents, some with Merit,
Tir'd out my good Lord Dorset's Spirit:
Sneaking, I stood, among the Crew,
Desiring much to speak with you.
I waited while the Clock struck thrice,
And Footman brought out fifty Lies;
Till Patience vext, and Legs grown weary,
I thought it was in vain to tarry:
But did opine it might be better,
By Penny-post to send a Letter.
Now, if you miss of this Epistle,
I'm balk'd again, and may go whistle.
My Business, Sir, you'll quickly guess,
Is to desire some little Place,
And fair pretensions I have for't,
Much Need, and very small Desert.
When e'er I writ to you, I wanted;
I always begg'd, you always granted,
Now, as you took me up when little,
Gave me my Learning, and my Vittle:
Askt for me, from my Lord, things fitting
Kind as I'd been your own begetting;
46
Nor leave me now at Six and Sevens
As Sunderland has left Mun. Stephens.
No Family that takes a Whelp,
When first he laps and scarce can yelp,
Neglects or turns him out of Gate,
When he's grown up to Dogs Estate:
Nor Parish if they once adopt
The spurious Brats that Strowlers dropt,
Leave 'em when grown up Lusty Fellows,
To the wide World, that is, the Gallows:
No thank 'em for their Love, that's worse,
Than if they'd throttl'd 'em at Nurse,
My Uncle, rest his Soul, when Living,
Might have contriv'd me ways of Thriving;
Taught me with Cyder to replenish
My Vats or ebbing Tide of Rhenish.
So when for Hock I drew Prickt White-wine,
Swear't had the flavour, and was right Wine:
Or sent me with ten Pounds to Furni-
Vall's Inn, to some good Rogue-Attorney;
Where now by forging Deeds and cheating,
I'd found some handsome ways of getting.
All this you made me quit to follow
That sneaking Whey-fac'd God Apollo.
Sent me among a Fidling Crew
Of Folks, I'ad never seen nor knew,
Calliope, and God knows who.
To add no more Invectives to it,
You spoil'd the Youth to make a Poet.
In common Justice, Sir, there's no Man
That makes the Whore but keeps the Woman.
Among all honest Christian People
Whoe'er breaks Limbs, maintains the Cripple.
The sum of all I have to say,
Might have contriv'd me ways of Thriving;
Taught me with Cyder to replenish
My Vats or ebbing Tide of Rhenish.
So when for Hock I drew Prickt White-wine,
Swear't had the flavour, and was right Wine:
Or sent me with ten Pounds to Furni-
Vall's Inn, to some good Rogue-Attorney;
Where now by forging Deeds and cheating,
I'd found some handsome ways of getting.
All this you made me quit to follow
That sneaking Whey-fac'd God Apollo.
Sent me among a Fidling Crew
Of Folks, I'ad never seen nor knew,
Calliope, and God knows who.
To add no more Invectives to it,
You spoil'd the Youth to make a Poet.
In common Justice, Sir, there's no Man
That makes the Whore but keeps the Woman.
Among all honest Christian People
Whoe'er breaks Limbs, maintains the Cripple.
Is, that you'd put me in some way,
And your Petitioner shall pray—
There's one thing more I had almost slipt,
But they may do as well in Post-script;
47
Nor would I have it long observ'd,
That one Mouse eats while t'other's starv'd.
| Matthew Prior. Dialogues of the Dead and Other Works | |