Poetical recreations | ||
97
TO THE Importunate ADDRESS OF POETRY.
Kind Friend, I prithee cease t' infestThis barren Region of my Breast,
Which never can a Harvest yield,
Since Sorrow has o'er-grown the Field.
If Int'rest won't oblige thee to't,
At least let Honour make thee do't;
'Cause I ungratefully have chose
Such Friends, as will thy Charms oppose.
But nought I see will drive thee hence,
Grief, Bus'ness, nor Impertinence:
Still, still thou wilt thy Joys obtrude
Upon a Mind so wholly rude,
As can't afford to entertain
Thee with the welcom of one strain:
Few Friends, like thee, will be so kind,
To come where Int'rest do's not bind:
98
To be unkind, will feign abuse.
But thou, kind Friend, art none of those,
Thy Charms thou always do'st oppose
'Gainst all Inquietudes o'th' Mind:
If I'm displeas'd, still thou art kind;
And by thy Spells do'st drive away
Dull Spirits, which with me wou'd stay;
And fill'st their empty places too
With Thoughts of what we ought to doe.
Thoughts to the Soul, if they be good,
Are both its physick and its food:
They fortifie it in distress,
In joy th' augment its happiness:
Thoughts do attend us at all times,
They urge us to good deeds, and crimes:
They do assist us in all states,
To th' Wretched they're Associates.
And what's more strange than all before,
They're Servants to the innocent and poor;
But to the Rich and Wicked, Lords or something more.
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