AN EPISTLE

TO FLEETWOOD SHEPHARD, ESQ.

SIR,

Burleigh, May 14, 1689.

As once a twelvemonth to the priest,
Holy at Rome, here Antichrist,
The Spanish King presents a jennet,
To shew his love,---that's all that's in't;
For if his Holiness would thump

His rev'rend bum 'gainst horse's rump,
He might b' equipt from his own stable
With one more white and eke more able.
Or as, with gondolas and men, his
Good Excellence the Duke of Venice
(I wish, for rhyme, it had been the king)
Sails out, and gives the Gulf a ring;
Which trick of state, he wisely maintains,
Keeps kindness up 'wixt old acquaintance;
For else, in honest truth, the sea
Has much less need of gold than he.
Or, not to rove and pump one's fancy
For Popish similies beyond sea,

As folks from muda all'd tenement
Bring landlords pepper-corn for rent,
Volume 11.

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Present a turkey or a hen

To those might better spare them ten;
Ev'n so, with all submission, I

(For first men instance, then apply)
Send you each year a homely letter,
Who may return me much a better.

Then take it, Sir, as it was writ, To pay respect, and not show wit; Nor look askew at what it saith; There's no petition in it---'faith.

Here some would scratch their heads, and try
What they should write, and how, and why;

But I conceive such folks are quite in
Mistakes, in theory of writing.

If once for principle 'tis laid,

That thought is trouble to the head,

I argue thus: The world agrees,

That he writes well who writes with ease;

Then he, by sequel logical,

Writes best who never thinks at all.

Verse comes from Heav'n, like inward light;

Mere human pains can ne'er come by't;
The God, not we, the poem makes;
We only tell folks what he speaks.
Hence, when anatomists discourse
How like brutes' organs are to ours,
They grant, if higher pow'rs think fit,
A bear might soon be made a wit;

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And that, for any thing in nature,
Pigs might speak love-odes, dogs bark satire.
Memnon, tho' stone, was counted vocal,
But'twas the God, mean-while, that spoke all.
Rome oft has heard a cross haranguing,
With prompting priest behind the hanging:
The wooden head resolv'd the question,
While you and Pettis help'd the jest on.

Your crabbed rogues, that read Lucretius,
Are against Gods, you know, and teach us
The God makes not the poet; but
The thesis, vice versa put,
Should Hebrew-wise be understood,
And means, the poet makes the God.
Egyptian gard'ners thus are said to
Have set the leeks they after pray'd to;
And Romish bakers praise the deity
They chipp'd, while yet in its paneity.

That when you poets swear and cry,
The God inspires; I rave, I die;
If inward wind does truly swell ye,
It must be the cholic in your belly:
That writing is but just like dice,
And lucky mains make people wise:
That jumbled words, if Fortune throw 'em,
Shall, well as Dryden, form a poem;
Or make a speech, correct and witty,
As you know who--- at the committee.

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So atoms, dancing round the centre,
They urge, made all things at a venture.
But, granting matters should be spoke
By method, rather than by luck,

This may confine their younger styles
Whom Dryden pedagogues at Will's;
But never could be meant to tie
Authentic wits like you and I :

For as young children, who are ty'd in
Go-carts, to keep their steps from sliding,
When members knit, and legs grow stronger,
Make use of such machine no longer,

But leap, pro libitu, and scout

On horse call'd Hobby, or without;
So when at school we first declaim,
Old Busby walks us in a theme,
Whose props support our infant vein,
And help the rickets in the brain:
But when our souls their force dilate,
And thoughts grow up to wit's estate,
In verse or prose we write or chat,
Not sixpence matter upon what.

'Tis not how well an author says, But 'tis how much, that gathers praise. Tonson, who is himselfa wit,

Counts writers' merits by the sheet.

Thus each should down with all he thinks,
As boys eat bread, to fill up chinks.

Kind Sir, I should be glad to see you;
I hope ve're well; so God be wi' you;
Was all I thought at first to write;
But things, since then, are alter'd quite;
Fancies flow in, and Muse flies high,
So God knows when my clack will lie:
I must, Sir, prattie on, as afore,
And beg your pardon yet this half hour.
So at pure barn of loud Non-con,
Where with my grannam I have gone,
When Lobb had sifted all his text,
And I well hop'd the pudding next,
Now to apply, has plagu'd me more
Than-all his villain cant before.

For your religion; first, of her
Your friends do sav'ry things aver:
They say she's honest as your claret,

Not sour'd with cant, nor stumm'd with merit.
Your chamber is the sole retreat

Of chaplains ev'ry Sunday night;
Of grace, no doubt, a certain sign,
When layman herds with man divine;
For if their fame be justly great,
Who would no Popish nuncio treat,
That his is greater, we must grant,
Who will treat nuncios Protestant.
One single positive weighs more,
You know, than negatives a score.