Classic Poem

Though we are now analys'd, and can't find,
How to have mutual presence, but in mind;
I'm bold to send you this, that you may know,
Though you're above, yet I do live below.
Though I've no bags, that are with child with gold,
And though my fireless chymnies catch the cold
For want of great revenues, yet I find
I've what's as good as all, a sated mind
I neither mony want, nor have I store,
I have enough to live, and ask no more
No tiptoed turret, whose aspiring brow,
Looks down and scornes the humble roofes below;
My cottage lyes beneath the thunders harmes,
Laughs at the whispers of the winds, or stormes.
My rooms are not inlined with Iapistry;
But ragged walls where a few books may ly.
I slight the silks, whose ruffling whispers pride,
And all the worlds Tautologies beside.
My limbs inhabite but a Country dress,
Not to adorn, but cover nakedness.
My famili's not such, whose gentry springs,
Like old Mecaenasses , from Grandsire Kings.
I've many kinred, yet my friends are few,
Those few not rich, and yet more rich then true.
I've but a drachme of learning, and less wit;
Yet that's enough to fright my wealth from it.
As if those two seldom or never meet,
But like two Generals that with bullets greet.
I study to live plenteously, though scant;
How not to have, yet not to care, nor want
Wee've here no gawdy feminines to show,
As you have in that great Seraglio ;
He that weds here, lyes cloyster'd in a maid,
A Sepulcher where never man was laid
Ours are with Load-stone touch'd, and never will,
But right against their proper pole, ly still
Yours like Hell-gates do alwayes open lye,
Like hackney Jades they stand at livery.
Like treasuries where each one throwes his mite;
Gulphs of contraries, at once dark and light
Where who so enters, is like gold refind;
Passing through fire, where Moloch sits enshrind,
And offers up a whole burnt sacrifize,
To pacifie those fiery Dieties.
I have no farr-fetch'd dear-bought delicates,
Whose vertues prized only by their rates
No fanci'd Kick-shawes that would serve t'invite,
To a fourth course the glutted appetite.
Hunger's my Cook, my labour brings me meat,
Which best digests, when it is sawe'd with sweat
They that have plurisies of these about them,
Yet do but live, and so do I without them
I can sit in my study soon, or late,
And have no Troopers quarrel with my gate;
Nor break the peace with it; whose innocence
Stands only guarded in its own defence.
No debts to sue for, and no coyn to lend,
No cause to fear my foe, nor slight my friend.
Yet there is one thing which me thinks I han't,
And I have studyed to supply that want,
'Tis the Synopsis of all misery;
'Tis the tenth want (Dear Friend) the want of Thee.
How great a joy 'twould be, how great a bliss,
If we could have a Metampsycosis!
May we once more enjoy ourselves, for neither
Is truly blest, till we are blest together.