 | Poems on Several Occasions |  |
Epistle to the Earl of ---
To write in Verse, O Count of mine,
To you, who have the Ladies nine,
With a wet finger, at your call,
And I believe have kist 'um all,
Is such an undertaking, none
But Peakrill bold would venture on:
Yet having sound, that, to my woes
No help will be procur'd by Prose,
And to write that way is no boot,
I'll try if Ryming will not doo't.
To you, who have the Ladies nine,
With a wet finger, at your call,
And I believe have kist 'um all,
Is such an undertaking, none
But Peakrill bold would venture on:
Yet having sound, that, to my woes
No help will be procur'd by Prose,
And to write that way is no boot,
I'll try if Ryming will not doo't.
Know then, my Lord, that on my word,
Since my first, second, and my third,
Which I have pester'd you withall,
I've heard no syllable at all,
Or where you are, or what you do
Or if I have a Lord, or no.
A pretty comfort to a man
That studies all the ways he can
To keep an Interest he does prize
Above all other Treasuries.
But let that pass, you now must know
Since my first, second, and my third,
Which I have pester'd you withall,
I've heard no syllable at all,
Or where you are, or what you do
Or if I have a Lord, or no.
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That studies all the ways he can
To keep an Interest he does prize
Above all other Treasuries.
We do on our last Quarter go;
And that I may go bravely out,
Am trowling merry Bowl about,
To Lord, and Lady, that and this,
As nothing were at all amiss,
When after twenty days are past,
Poor Charles has eat and drunk his last.
No more Plum-porridge then, or Pye,
No Brawn with Branch of Rosemary,
No Chine of Beef, enough to make
The tallest Yeoman's Chine to crack;
No Bag-pipe humming in the Hall,
Nor noise of House-keeping at all,
Nor sign, by which it may be said,
This House was once inhabited.
I may perhaps, with much ado,
Rub out a Christmas more, or two;
276
But never look to keep one more.
Some three Months hence, I make account
My Spur-gall'd Pegasus to mount,
When, whither I intend to go,
My Horse, as well as I, will know:
But being got, with much ado,
Out of the reach a Stage or two,
Though not the conscience of my shame,
And Pegasus fall'n desp'rate lame,
I shake my stirrups, and forsake him,
Leaving him to the next will take him;
Not that I set so lightly by him,
Would any be so kind to buy him;
But that I think those who have seen
How ill my Muse has mounted been,
Would certainly take better heed
Than to bid money for her Steed.
Being then on foot, away I go,
And bang the hoof, incognito,
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Little Disguise will serve the turn,
Since best of Friends, the World's so base,
Scarce know a man when in Disgrace.
But that's too serious. Then suppose,
Like trav'ling Tom, with dint of Toes,
I'me got unto extreamest shore,
Sick, and impatient to be o're
That Channel which secur'd my state
Of Peace, whilst I was fortunate,
But in this moment of distress,
Confines me to unhappiness:
But where's the Money to be had
This surly Neptune to perswade?
It is no less than shillings ten,
Gods will be brib'd as well as men.
Imagine then your High lander
Over a Cann of muddy Beer,
Playing at Passage with a pair
Of drunken Fumblers for his Fare;
And see I've won, oh, lucky chance,
Hoist Sail amain, my Mates, for France;
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And having rob'd me, lets me go.
I've won, and yet how could I choose,
He needs must win, that cannot lose;
Fate send me then a happy wind,
And better luck to those behind.
But what advantage will it be
That Winds and Tides are kind to me,
When still the wretched have their woes,
Wherever they their Feet dispose?
What satisfaction, or delight
Are ragousts to an appetite?
What ease can France or Flanders give
To him that is a Fugitive?
Some two years hence, when you come o're,
In all your State, Ambassadour,
If my ill Nature be so strong
T'out-live my Infamy so long,
You'l find your little Officer
Ragged as his old Colours are;
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Standing at some poor Sutlers Tent,
With his Pike cheek't, to guard the Tun
He must not tast when he has done.
Hump, says my Lord, I'me half afraid
My Captain's turn'd a Reformade,
That scurvy Face I sure should know,
Yes faith, my Lord, 'tis even so,
I am that individual he:
I told your Lordship how 'twould be.
Thou did'st so, Charles, it is confest,
Yet still I thought thou wer't in jest;
But comfort! Poverty's no Crime,
I'll take thy word another time.
This matters now are coming to,
And I'm resolv'd upon't; whilst you,
Sleeping in Fortune's Arms, near dream
Who feels the contrary Extream;
Faith write to me, that I may know
Whether you love me still, or no;
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I've pull'd upon me my disgrace;
For whilst I still stand fair with you,
I dare the worst my Fate can do;
But your opinion long I find,
I'm sunk for ever to mankind.
| Poems on Several Occasions | |