Wrote from London to a Friend in the Country.

Return'd from Bath on Sunday last,
Where I have been these two Months past;
Your Letters reach'd me safe — indeed
'Twas well you wrote with prudent Speed ;
Or in my poignant, probing Rhimes
I'd pickl'd you, to after Times;
My Bow was bent — but now the Yew
Shall sooner wound myself than Y OU .
Your Letters like me passing well;
In faith I think (you best can tell)
'Twas you, my much-respected Friend,
In print, with most uxorious End ,
Who lately was my Foe, in Print ,
September last — come, take the Hint;
And frankly own, if so it be,
That " Modest Genius " beams in T HEE .
But to your Lines — you say with Care
You've read my Hectics still appear
No Reasons for Satyric Truth?
You're strangely partial, Rev'rend Youth:
The Wormwood Quality you fear,
I know it galling to the Ear,
Of every putrid Character .
Much you dislike my lashing C***** R ,
Who ( inter nos ) us not a Nestor ;
Let this mock Patron soon apply
My friendly Rub, or, by the bye,
I've got another Shaft in Store,
Nay, on Demand, a hundred more:
But, in Excuse, I hear you say,
He has no Pickings in his Way ; —
Hold — let me tell this Son of Lawn,
He's ev'ry Courtier's Levee-Spawn:
There, long ago, he might have sped,
And earn'd his crouching Nephews Bread. —
Enough of dirty, cringing Men;
Return we to our Text again:
I think you write with fluent Ease,
Repeat it oft, the more you ll please,
In Town I make a trifling Stay,
Octavo cries — to Bath away:
There I expect your writing soon;
Now fare you well, observe my Boon.