Classic Poem

Now I'm return'd, my thanks shall be so too,
First to your self, next to your half-self Su .
To Tom . that treated us so friendly, and
So like one that a Treat do's understand;
Next to his lovely Lady, who appear'd,
So like an Angel, and our Spirits chear'd;
I think she could my dying flames renew,
And create such as never were in you.
If she can pardon what we did amiss,
Her mercy signal as her beauty is;
First your impertinent frequent Rhythming, which
Infected both our Chaplains with an Itch;
Who seeing Rhythmes so freely come from you,
Did confidently venture at it too
But t'immitate's a servile thing; and all
Copies fall short of their Original.
There is a certain knack in what men do,
Which gives the relish, this they reach'd not to.
Verse by severe brows is conceiv'd a crime,
But never man yet durst excuse bald Rhythme.
It will require much time, and pains, and skill,
To finde whe'r Rhythme has done more good or ill;
Those that are for it, say that verses be
Pleasant to read, and helps to memory;
And while men hunt for Rythme, they'r put in mind
Of things, which in dull prose they could not finde.
On t'other side, the Author who abuses,
In witty Rhythmes poor Poets and their muses,
Imputes it to you Poets as a crime,
That every other Verse is made for Rhythme:
And thinks if one half of all verses are
But tolerable sense, 'tis very fair:
So half of all the Paper, Pen and Ink,
Which Poets spoil, is to make Words cry Chink
Go to her therefore straight and make your peace,
And henceforth let that sort of fooling cease;
Pray her forgive your folly, and with it,
That greater you made other men committ
Tell her, 'tis your complexion sin, which you
Can no more leave, then she can to subdue
Or her eyes murth'ring cease, but yet you may
Divert the force of it some other way,
And by some lasting Poem make her fame,
As high and spreading, as she made my flame
Hard drinking there, and late I can't conceive
A sin, 'cause 'tis my own which I can't leave;
Yet if her pardon shee'ld extend so farr,
Then for her face and eyes I'll pardon her.
So wee'll be friends, and this agree upon,
For future I'll drink on, let her look on.
To the whole Church remember me, to all
Whom we did feast, and did not feast withall
For those that did not, had a minde to treat
Us likewise, but we drank too much to eat
First to his Lordship, tell him I desire,
My self as high as he is, and him higher:
Not for wealth, rule, and honour (though those be
Things, which might tempt some holyer men than we,)
But for the Priviledges sake, for then
Men durst not ask us high and holy men,
To drink a quart unto them, and I should so
Scape all those ills I'm now obnoxious to.
Now as I am, if any friend meets me,
Hoop! my friend A.B. (sayes he,)
Nay faith now we are mett thus, wee'll not part,
Till we've enjoy'd our selves and crack'd one Quart:
I like a young Whore, do at first deny,
And begg his pardon, but so scurvily,
I do but tempt him to him to tempt me again,
He swears I shall, and all denyal's vain
And 'cause the Gentleman should swear agen,
I yield and go, then that one quart growes ten.
Thank the ingenious Chanter for his Treat,
And for himself who was both wine and meat;
His fate I pitty though, whose youth was spent
In an obscure retreat, and languishment,
When he was strong in body, and his minde
Fit to receive what then he could not finde,
Now in a glut, wealth and preferments come:
But age and sickness makes them troublesome.
Next your gentile Archdeacon thank from me,
For his obliging generositie.
And his school musick, which perhaps to those,
That understand it may seem precious:
But I good drinking Anthems more admire
Then all their unintelligible Quire;
Words plainly sung by one or two good Fellows,
Please me more than G Sol Re Ut an' th'Bellows
The next in order to be handled are,
Our learned Chaplains, that religious Pair
Though Tom be no deep Schollar, nor rank Wit,
Yet he's an admirable Hypocrit.
Frank has some wit and learning without doubt:
But does so negligently blunder't out
As if he said, I preach Divinity,
And if you will not minde it, what care I?
They two might make one good Divine; for one
Has head and heart, and t'other face and Tone
And if one can convert the men o'th' Town,
The tother will soon put the Women down.
Now Charles farewel, let's both bid so to Rythme,
'I has taken up much of our precious time,
In hunting after syllables and words,
A trade which now nor wealth nor fame affords.
We might have better spent our time, if we
Had like the world employed it thrivingly
If we much wealth and greatness had affected,
And stead of versifying had projected,
You might have been a Knight, and I a Squire,
Titles which now the World does much admire.
And o'r our betters rant and domineer,
If we could but have got so much a year:
When mens high Houses peep'd through tufts of Trees,
What veneration is ascribed to these?
They call us Sirrah while we call them Sirs;
Parson and Poet at their heels like Currs;
Come, strike up Parson, Poet gee's a verse,
Then one must preach, and t'other must reherse;
While we with all our scribling are content,
With A.B. Yeoman, and with C.S. Gent.
You think they'r fools, and they think we are so,
But both perhaps are fools for ought we know,
Now since all men are fools, who would be none,
Let him think what he will, I think he's one.