Classic Poem

Thy Letter Friend, had the hard fate,
To find me with a busie pate,
Which still continues and will do,
Till you meet me, or I meet you
Then prithee come thy wayes to me,
Or else I vow I'll come to thee
So well I love thee that I doat,
And make this shamelesse Letter show't
And it is more then I can do,
To live in love and businesse too
P.B. and G I had the luck
To see, and drink a little pluck
Which they both said, they'ld do agen
But broke their words like honest men,
And shew'd themselves as errant lyars,
As th'were 'prentice to the Tryers
But will they e're preach truth d'you think
Who are so false in point of drink?
Since that some persons got some places,
Decept and lying have been graces
I'm also told P P was here,
But ne're came at me though so neer
Which I don't take amiss, for I
Suppose his love's not wont to lie
On the Male Sex, but by his Vote,
Breeches should vail to petticoat
The drink that came from honest Tim ,
Had two ill properties, like him
'Twas long a coming, but alas!
In going swift as lightning 'twas
There's none of't left, you may conclude,
By this, which is both flat and rude
Nor drink I sack, and so this time,
Instead of wit you've only rythme
Wit is as scarce and wanting here
With us, as mony with you there
Our Prince of Poets, who once writ
What all admir'd, for art and wit,
Did lately stoop his Muse, and make her
To write a Ballade of a Quaker
Which I have sent thee here withall,
To see how witts do rise and fall
Just as our drink is bad or good,
So verse is writ, so understood
But oh the mony ( Tom ) the money!
As strong as Sampson , sweet as hony,
How long! how long it is a coming!
Such reckoning, such receipts, such summing,
Belong to't, I shall choak I think,
Before 'tis melted into drink!
Those things you'l have me pray for, I
Can't find in our Church-liturgie
To you therefore I make my suite,
That you will set the boyes to do't,
For I am told the Directory
And your new prayers made ex tempore ,
Are all for mony very fit,
Because they're only made for it
I like thee that apply'st thy parts,
To preaching and such thriving arts,
I prethee practise physick too,
For if one wont, yet both will do
A handsome person with neat band,
Small Cuffs', white gloves, smooth tongue and hand,
If both a Doctour and a Priest,
What Ladie's able to resist?
You may talk bawdy freely then,
Before coy women and old men
And be of no Religion too,
Yet profess all as others do
While the poor Poet tugs for wit,
To make men laugh at him and it
And nothing gets by all his pain,
But censures various and vain
From such as say they Judges are,
And yet did never plead at bar
Undo their malice that condemn,
Let them write while we laugh at them
A poem I have sent thee heere,
That dyes if thou shouldst be severe
And 'cause I've none worth sending down
I've bought one cost me half a crown
And Dick Bromes playes which good must be,
Because they were approv'd by thee
All which I hope will bring me back
What all so Love, and I so lack
When my glasse beads to India come,
They'l bring me pearls and Diamonds home
And thou wilt like the powers above,
Returne a blessing for a Dove