Matthew Prior. Dialogues of the Dead and Other Works ::

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,

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,
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;

My Friend Charles Mountague's preferr'd,
Nor would I have it long observ'd,
That one Mouse eats while t'other's starv'd.

University of Virginia Library

AN EPISTLE TO Sir Fleetwood Sheppard.