University of Virginia Library

You now, Sir, may, and justly, wonder
That I, who did of late so thunder
Your frontier Garrison by th' Ferry,
Should on a sudden grow so weary;
And thence may raise a wrong conclusion,
That you have bob'd my Resolution;
Or else that my Poetick Battery,
With which so smartly I did patter ye,
(Though I am not in that condition)
Has shot away her Ammunition;
Or (if in kindness peradventure
You are more gentle in your censure)
That I my writing left pursuing,
'Cause I was weary of ill doing.
Now of these three surmizes any,
Except the last, might pass with many;
But such as know me of the Nation,
Know I so hate all Reformation,
Since so much harm to doe I've seen it,
That in my self I'll ne'er begin it;
And should you under your hand give it,
Not one of twenty would believe it.

But I must tell you in brief Clauses,
If you to any of these Causes
Impute the six weeks Truce I've given,
That you are wide, Sir, the whole Heaven:
For know, though I appear less eager,
I never mean to raise my Leaguer,
Till or by storm, or else by Famine,
I force you to the place I am in;
Your self sans Article to tender,
Unto Discretion to surrender;
Where see what comes of your vain glory,
To make me lie so long before ye.
To shew you next I want no pouder,
I thus begin to batter louder;
And for the last vain Hope that fed ye,
I think I've answer'd it already.

Now, to be plain, although your Spirit
Will ill, I know, endure to hear it,
You must of force at least miscarry,
For reasons supernumerary:
And though I know you will be striving
To doe what lies in mortal living,
And may, it may be, a month double
To lie before you give me trouble,
(Though with the stronger men but vapour ill)
And hold out stiff till th' end of April,
Or possibly a few days longer,
Yet then you needs must yield for hunger,
When, having eaten all Provisions,
Y'are like to make most brave Conditions.

Now having friendship been so just to,
To tell you what y'are like to trust to,
I'll next acquaint you with one reason
I've let you rest so long a season,
And that my Muse has been so idle;
Know Pegasus has got a Bridle,
A Bit and Curb of crusted water,
Or if I call't plain Ice no matter,
With which he now is so commanded,
His days of galloping are ended,
Unless I with the spur do prick him,
Nay, rather though I whip and kick him;
He who unbidden us'd to gambol,
Can now nor prance, nor trot, nor amble,
Nor stir a foot to take his airing,
But stands stiff froze, like that at Charing,
With two feet up, two down, 'tis pitty
He's not erected in the City.

But, to leave fooling, I assure ye
There never was so cold a Fury
Of nipping Frost, and pinching weather,
Since Eve and Adam met together.
Our Peak, that always has been famous
For cold wherewith to cramp and lame us,
Worse than it self, did now resemble a
Certain damn'd place call'd Nova Zembla,
And we who boast us humane Creatures,
Had happy been had we chang'd features,
Garments at least, though theirs be shabbed,
With those who that cold place inhabit,
The Bears and Foxes, who sans question
Than we by odds have warmer Vests on.
How cold that Country is, he knows most
Has there his Fingers and his Toes lost;
But here I know that every Member
Alike was handled by December:
Who blew his nose had clout or fist all
Instead of snivel fill'd with Crystal,
Who drew for Urinal ejection,
Was b'witch'd into an odd erection,
And these, Priapus like, stood strutting,
Fitter for Pedestal than rutting:
As men were fierce, or gentle handed,
Their Fists were clutch'd, or Palms expanded;
Limbs were extended, or contracted,
As use or humour most affected;
For, as men did to th' air expose 'em,
It catch'd and in that figure froze 'em;
Of which think me not over ample:
If I produce you here example.
Where, though I am believ'd by scarce one,
None will, I hope, suspect the Person,
Who, from Lies he far remote is,
Will give in verbo sacerdotis:

One going to discharge at will-Duck
Had for his recompence the ill luck,
(Or my Informer's an Impostor)
To be in that presenting posture,
Surpriz'd with his left eye fast winking,
Till by good fires, and hot things drinking,
He thaw'd, to the beholders laughter,
Unto it self a few hours after.
Two Towns, that long that war had waged,
Being at Foot-ball now engaged
For honour, as both sides pretended,
Left the brave tryall to be ended
Till the next Thaw, for they were frozen
On either part at least a dozen;
With a good handsome space between 'em,
Like Rolle rich stones, if you've seen 'em,
And could no more run, kick, or trip ye,
Than I can quaff off Aganippe;
Till Ale, which crowns all such pretences,
Mull'd them again into their senses.
A Maid compell'd to be a gadder,
T'abate th' extension of her Bladder,
Which is an importuning matter,
Was so supported by her water,
To ease her knees with a third Pillar,
That as she sate the poor distiller
Look'd on the tripod, like the famous
Astrologer hight Nostradamus.
These stories sound so very odly,
That though men may be pretty godly,
One should though store of Mustard give 'em,
E'er they expect they should believe 'em.
But, to allure your Faith a little,
What follows true is to a tittle:
Our Countrey Air was, in plain dealing,
Some weaks together so congealing,
That if, as men are rude in this age,
One spit had in another's visage,
The Constable by th' back had got him,
For he infallibly had shot him.
Nay, Friend with Friend, Brother with Brother,
Must needs have wounded one another
With kindest words, were they not wary
To make their greetings sideways carry;
For all the words that came from gullets,
If long were slugs, if short ones Bullets.
You might have read from mouths, (sans Fable,)
Your humble Servant, Sir, in Label;
Like those, (yet theirs were warmer Quarters,)
We see in Foxe's Book of Martyrs.
Eyes that were weak, and apt to water,
Wore Spectacles of their own matter;
And Noses that to drop were ceased,
To such a longitude encreased,
That who e'er wrung for ease or losses,
Snap'd off two handfulls of Proboscis.
Beards were the strangest things, God save us,
Such as Dame Nature never gave us!
So wild, so pointed, and so staring,
That I should wrong them by comparing
Hedg-hogs, or Porcupine's small Taggers
To their more dang'rous Swords and Daggers.
Mustachio's look'd like Hero's Trophies
Behind their Arms i'th' Herald's Office;
The perpendicular Beard appear'd
Like Hop-poles in a Hop-yard rear'd:
'Twixt these the underwoody Acres
Look'd just like Bavins at a Baker's,
To heat the Oven mouth most ready,
Which seem'd to gape for heat already.
In mouths with salivation flowing,
The horrid hairs about 'em growing,
Like Reeds, look'd in confused order,
Growing about a Fish-pond's border.
But stay my self I caught have tripping,
(This Frost is perillous for slipping)
I've brought this stupifying weather,
These Elements, too near together;
The bearded therefore look'd as Nature,
Instead of forming humane Creature,
So many Garrisons had made us,
Our Beards t'our Sconces Pallisadoes.
Perukes now stuck so firm and stedfast,
They all were riveted to headfast;
Men that bought Wiggs to goe a wooing,
Had them made natural now and growing;
But let them have a care, for truly
The hair will fall 'twixt this and July.
The tender Ladies, and the Lasses,
Were vitrifi'd to drinking-Glasses,
Contriv'd to such an admiration,
After so odd fantastick fashion,
One scarce knew at which end to guzzle,
The upper or the lower muzzle.
The Earth to that degree was crusted
That, let me never more be trusted
(I speak without Poetick Figure)
If I don't think a lump no bigger
Than a good Wall-nut, had it hit one,
Would as infallibly have split one,
As Cannon-shot, that killing's sure at,
Had not both been alike obdurate.
The very Rocks, which in all reason
Should stoutli'st have withstood the season,
Repetrifi'd with harder matter,
Had no more privilege than water:
Had Pegasus struck such a Mountain,
It would have fail'd him for a Fountain;
'Twas well Pernassus, when he started,
Prov'd to his hoof more tender-hearted,
Or else of Greece the sullen Bulley,
And Trojan Hector, had been dully
In thread-bare Prose, alas! related,
Which now in Song are celebrated;
For steed Poetick ne'er had whinny'd
Greek Iliad, or Latin Æneid;
Nor Nero writ his ribble rabbles,
Of sad Complaints, Love, and strange Fables:
Then too Anacreon and Flaccus
Had ne'er made Odes in praise of Bacchus,
And taught blind Harpers for their bread sneak,
From Feast to Feast to make Cats dead squeak.
Nor Martial giv'n so great offences,
With Epigrams of double Senses.
Rhime then had ne'er been scan'd on Fingers,
No Ballad-makers then, or Singers,
Had e'er been heard to twang out Meetre,
Musick than which back droans make sweeter:
Of Poetry, that writing mystick,
There had not extant been one Dystich;
And, which is worst, the noblest sort on't,
And to the World the most important
Of th' whole Poetical Creation,
Burlesque, had never been in fashion.
But how have I this while forgot so
My Mistress Dove, who went to pot too,
My white Dove that was smoaking ever,
In spight of Winter's worst endeavour,
And still could so evade or fly him,
As never to be pinnion'd by him,
Now numb'd with bitterness of weather,
Had not the pow'r to stir a Feather,
Wherein the Nymph was to be pitti'd,
But flag'd her wings and so submitted.
The Ruffian bound though, knowing's betters,
Her Silver feet in Chrystal Fetters,
In which Estate we saw poor Dove lye,
Even in Captivity more lovely:
But in the fate of this bright Princess
Reason it self you know convinces,
That her pinniferous fry must die all,
Imprison'd in the Chrystal Vial;
And doubtless there was great Mortality
Of Trout and Grailing of great Quality,
Whom Love and Honour did importune
To stick to her in her misfortune,
Though we shall find, no doubt, good Dishes
Next Summer of Plebean Fishes,
Or, if with greater art and trouble
An old Patrician Trout we bubble,
In better Liquor swim we'll make him
By odds than that from whence we take him.

Now though I have in stuff confounded,
Of small truths and great lies compounded,
Giv'n an account, that we in England
May, for cold weather, vie with Green-land,
I han't yet the main reason given,
Why I so very long have driven
My answer to the last you sent me,
Which did so highly complement me:
Know therefore that both Ink and Cotten
So desperately hard were gotten,
It was impossible by squeezing
To get out either truth or leasing:
My Fingers too, no more being jointed,
My Love and Manners disappointed;
Nay, I was numb'd on that strange fashion,
I could not sign an Obligation,
(Though Heaven such a Friend ne'er sent me)
Would one a thousand pounds have lent me
On my own Bond; and who is't buckles
To writing, pray, that has no knuckles?
But now I'm thaw'd beyond all Conscience
Into a torrent of damn'd Nonsense:
Yet still in this our Climate frigid
I'm one day limber, next day rigid;
Nay, all things yet remain so crusty,
That were I now but half so lusty
As when we kiss'd four months agon,
And had but Dutch Goloshoes on,
At one run I would slide to Lon---
But surely this transforming weather
Will soon take leave for altogether,
Then what now Lapland seems in May,
You'll swear is sweet Arcadia.