Classic Poem

From Porta Nova as pale wretches go
To swing on fatal Tripus , even so,
My dearest Friend, I went last day from thee,
Whilst for five Miles, the figure of that Tree
Was ever in my guilty Fancy's eye,
As if in earnest I'd been doom'd to die
For, what deserv'd it, so unworthily
Stealing so early, Jack , away from thee.
And that which (as 't well might) encreas'd my fear,
Was the ill luck of my vile Chariotier,
Who drove so nicely too, t' increase my dread,
As if his Horses with my vital thread
Had Harness'd been, which being, alas! so weak
He fear'd might snap, and would not it should break,
Till he himself the honour had to do 't
With one thrice stronger, and my neck to boot.
Thus far in hanging posture then I went,
(And sting of Conscience is a punishment
On Earth they say the greatest, and some tell
It is moreo'er the onely one in Hell,
The Worm that never dies being alone
The thing they call endless Damnation:)
But leaving that unto the Wise that made it,
And knowing best the Gulf, can best evade it,
I'll tell you, that being pass'd through High-gate , there
I was saluted by the Countrey Air,
With such a pleasing Gale, as made me smell
The Peak it self; nor is 't a Miracle,
For all that pass that Portico this way
Are Transmontani , as the Courtiers say;
Which suppos'd true, one then may boldly speak,
That all of th' North-side High-gate are i' th' Peak ;
And so to hanging when I thought to come,
Wak'd from the Dream, I found my self at home.

Wonder not then if I, in such a case
So over-joy'd, forgot thee for a space;
And but a little space, for, by this light,
I thought on thee again ten times e'er night;
Though when the night was come, I then indeed
Thought all on one of whom I'd greater need:
But being now cur'd of that Malady,
I'm at full leisure to remember thee,
And (which I'm sure you long to know) set forth
In Northern Song my Journey to the North.
Know then with Horses twain, one sound, one lame,
On Sunday 's Eve I to St. Alban 's came,
Where, finding by my Body's lusty state,
I could not hold out home at that slow rate,
I found a Coach-man, who, my case bemoaning,
With three stout Geldings, and one able Stoning,
For eight good Pounds did bravely undertake,
Or for my own, or for my Money's sake,
Through thick and thin, fall out what could befall,
To bring me safe and sound to Basford-hall .
Which having drank upon, he bid good-night,
And (Heaven forgive us) with the Morning's light,
Not fearing God, nor his Vice-gerent Constable,
We roundly rowling were the Road to Dunstable ,
Which, as they chim'd to Prayers, we trotted through,
And 'fore elev'n ten minutes came unto
The Town that Brickhill height, where we did rest,
And din'd indifferent well both man and beast.
'Twixt two and four to Stratford , 'twas well driven,
And came to Tocester to lodge at Even.
Next day we din'd at Dunchurch , and did lie
That night four miles on our side Coventry .
Tuesday at noon at Lichfeild Town we baited,
But there some Friends, who long that hour had waited,
So long detain'd me, that my Chariotier
Could drive that night but to Uttoxiter .
And there the Wedn'sday , being Market-day,
I was constrain'd with some kind Lads to stay
Tippling till afternoon, which made it night
When from my Hero's Tow'r I saw the light
Of her Flambeaux, and fanci'd as we drave
Each rising Hillock was a swelling wave,
And that I swimming was in Neptune 's spight,
To my long long'd-for Harbour of delight.

And now I'm here set down again in peace,
After my troubles, business, Voyages,
The same dull Northern clod I was before,
Gravely enquiring how Ewes are a Score,
How the Hay-Harvest, and the Corn was got,
And if or no there's like to be a Rot;
Just the same Sot I was e'er I remov'd,
Nor by my travel, nor the Court improv'd;
The same old fashion'd Squire, no whit refin'd,
And shall be wiser when the Devil's blind:
But find all here too in the self-same state,
And now begin to live at the old rate,
To bub old Ale, which nonsense does create,
Write leud Epistles, and sometimes translate
Old Tales of Tubs, of Guyenne , and Provence ,
And keep a clutter with th' old Blades of France ,
As D'Avenant did with those of Lombardy ,
Which any will receive, but none will buy
And that has set H.B. and me awry.
My River still through the same Chanel glides,
Clear from the Tumult, Salt and dirt of Tides,
And my poor Fishing-house, my Seat's best grace,
Stands firm and faithfull in the self-same place
I left it four months since, and ten to one
I go a Fishing e'er two days are gone:
So that (my Friend) I nothing want but thee
To make me happy as I'd wish to be;
And sure a day will come I shall be bless'd
In his enjoyment whom my heart loves best;
Which when it comes will raise me above men
Greater than crowned Monarchs are, and then
I'll not exchange my Cottage for White-hall ,
Windsor , the Louvre , or th' Escurial .