The Poems of John Byrom :: :: University of Virginia Library

Dear Peter, whose Friendship I value much more,
Than Bards their own Verses, or Misers their Store:
Your Books, and your Bus'ness, and ev'ry thing else
Lay aside for a while, and come down to the Wells!
The Country so pleasant, the Weather so fine,
A World of fair Ladies, and delicate Wine!
The Proposal, I fancy, you'll hardly reject:
Then hear, if you come, what you are to expect.

II

Some sev'n or eight Mile off, to give you the Meeting,
Barbers, Dippers, and so forth, we send to you greeting.

Soon as they set Eyes on you, off flies the Hat:
“Does your Honour want this? does your Honour want that?”
That being a Stranger, by this Apparatus
You may see our good Manners, before you come at us.
Now this, please your Honour, is what we call Tooting,
A Trick in your Custom to get the first Footing.

III

Conducted by these civil Gen'men to Town,
You put up your Horse, for Rime's sake, at the Crown.
My Landlord bids welcome, and gives you his Word
For the best Entertainment the House can afford;
You taste which is better, his White, or his Red,
Bespeak a good Supper, good Room, and good Bed;
In short,—just as Travellers do when they 'light;—
So, to fill up the Stanza, I wish you Goodnight.

IV

But then the next Morning, when Phœbus appears,
And with his bright Beams our glad Hemisphere cheers,
You rise, dress, get shav'd, and away to the Walks,
The Pride of the Place, of which ev'ry one talks.

There, I would suppose you a-drinking the Waters,
Didn't I know that you come not for any such Matters;
But to see the fine Ladies in their Déshabille,
A Dress that's sometimes the most studied to kill.

V

The Ladies you see, aye, and Ladies as fair,
As charming, and bright as you'll see anywhere:
You eye and examine the beautiful Throng,
As o'er the clean Walks they pass lovely along;
And if any, by Chance, looks a little Demurer,
You fancy, like ev'ry young Fop, you could cure her;
Till from some pretty Nymph a deep Wound you receive,
And your self want the Cure, which you thought you could give.

VI

Not so wounded, howe'er, as to make you forget,
That your Honour this Morn has not breakfasted yet.

So to Morley's you go, look about, and sit down;
Then comes the young Lass for your Honour's half-Crown;
She brings out the Book, you look wisely upon her:
“What's the Meaning of this?”—“To Subscribe, please your Honour.”
So you write, as your Betters have all done before ye;—
'Tis a Custom, and so there's an End of the Story.

VII

And now, all this while, it is forty to one
But some Friend or other you've happen'd upon:
You all go to Church upon hearing the Bell,—
Whether out of Devotion, yourselves best can tell;—
From thence to the Tavern to toast pretty Nancy,
Th' aforesaid bright Nymph, that had smitten your Fancy:
Where Wine and good Victuals attend your Commands,
And Wheatears, far better than French Ortolans.

VIII

Then, after you've din'd, take a View of our Ground,
And observe the fine Mountains that compass us round;

And, if you could walk a Mile after your Eating,
There's some comical Rocks, that are worth contemplating:
You may, if you please, for their oddness and make,
Compare 'em—let's see—to the Derbyshire Peak;
They're one like the other, except that the Wonder
Does here lie above Ground, and there it lies under.

IX

To the Walks, about seven, you trace back your Way,
Where the Sun marches off, and the Ladies make Day.
What crowding of Charms: Gods,—or rather Goddésses!
What Beauties are here! What bright looks, airs, and Dresses!
In the room of the Waters had Helicon sprung,
And the Nymphs of the Place by old Poets been sung,
To invite the Gods hither they would have had Reason,
And Jove had descended each Night in the Season.

X

If with Things here below we compare Things on high,
The Walks are like yonder bright Path in the Sky,

Where heavenly Bodies in such Clusters mingle,
Tis impossible, Sir, to describe 'em all single:
But if ever you saw that sweet Creature Miss K---y,
If ever you saw her, I say,—let me tell ye,
Descriptions are needless: for surely to you,
No Beauty, no Graces, can ever be new.

XI

But when to their Gaming the Ladies withdraw,
Those Beauties are fled, which when walking you saw;
Ungrateful the Scene which you there see display'd,
Chance murd'ring those Features which Heaven had made.
If the fair Ones their Charms did sufficiently prize,
Their Elbows they'd spare for the sake of their Eyes;
And the Men too,—what Work! its enough, in good faith is't,
Of the nonsense of Chance to convince any Atheist.

XII

But now 'tis high Time, I presume, to bid Vale,
Lest we tire you too long with our Tunbridgiale;

Which if the sour Critics pretend to unravel,
Or at these our Verses should stupidly cavil,—
If this be the Case, tell the Critics, I pray,
That I care not one Farthing for all they can say.
And so I conclude, with my Service, good Peter,
To yourself and all Friends. Farewell, Muse; farewell, Metre!