The gain of two such friendships! Heyward and
Selden! two names that so much understand!
On whom I could take up, and ne'er abuse
The credit, that would furnish a tenth muse!
But here's no time nor
You both are modest.
AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND,
(MASTER COLBY,)
TO PERSUADE HIM TO THE WARS.
ZAKE, friend, from forth thy lethargy! the
Beats brave and loud in Europe, and bids
All that dare rouse or are not loth to quit
Their vicious ease, and be o'erwhelm'd with it.
It is a call to keep the spirits alive
That gasp for action, and would yet revive
Man's buried honour, in his sleepy life :
Quickning dead nature to her noblest strife.
All other acts of worldlings are but toil
In dreams, begun in hope, and end in spoil.
Look on the ambitious man, and see him nurse
His unjust hopes with praises begg'd, or, worse,
Bought flatteries, the issue of his purse,
Till he become both their and his own curse!
Look on the false and cunning man, that loves
No person, nor is loved: what ways he proves
To gain upon his belly; and at last
Crush'd in the snaky brakes that he had past!
See the grave, sour, and supercilious sir,
In outward face, but inward, light as fur,
Or feathers, lay his fortune out to show,
Till envy wound or maim it at a blow!
See him that's call'd, and thought the happiest man,
Honour'd at once, and envied (if it can
Be honour is so mix'd) by such as would
For all their spite, be like him, if they could:
No part or corner man can look
But there are objects bid him to be gone
As far as he can fly, or follow day,
Rather than here so bogg'd in vices stay.
The whole world here leaven'd with madness
And being a thing blown out of nought, rebels
Against his Maker, high alone with weeds,
And impious rankness of all sects and seeds:
Not to be check'd or frighted now with fate,
But more licentious made and desperate !
Our delicacies are grown capital,
And even our sports are dangers! what we call
Friendship, is now mask'd hatred! justice fled,
And shamefac'dness together! all laws dead
That kept man living! pleasures only sought!
Honour and honesty, as poor things thought
As they are made! pride and stiff clownage mix'd
To make up greatness! and man's whole good fix'd
In bravery, or gluttony, or coin,
All which he makes the servants of the groin!
Thither it flows: how much did Stallion spend
To have his.court-bred filly there commend
His lace and starch; and fall upon her back
In admiration, stretch'd upon the rack
Of lust, to his rich suit, and title, Lord?
Ay, that's a charm and half! she must afford
That all respect, she must lie down; nay, more,
'Tis there civility to be a whore :
He's one of blood and fashion! and with these
The bravery makes she can no honour leese:
To do't with cloth, or stuffs, lust's name might
With velvet, plush, and tissues, it is spirit.
O these so ignorant monsters, light, as proud!
Who can behold their manners, and not cloud-
Like, on them lighten? If that nature could
Not make a verse,5 anger or laughter would,
To see them aye discoursing with their glass,
How they may make some one that day an ass,
Planting their purls, and curls, spread forth like net,
And every dressing for a pit-fall set
To catch the flesh in, and to pound a
Be at their visits, see them squeamish, sick,
Ready to cast at one whose band sits ill,
And then leap mad on a neat picardill,
As if a brize were gotten in their tail;
And firk, and jerk, and for the coachman rail,
And jealous each of other, yet think long
To be abroad chanting some bawdy song,
And laugh, and measure thighs, then squeak, spring, itch,
Do all the tricks of a salt lady bitch!
For t'other pound of sweetmeats, he shall feel
That pays, or what he will: the dame is steel.
For these with her young company she'll enter,
Where Pitts, or Wright, or Modet would not venture;
Not make a verse, &c.] This epistle, which possesses no ordinary degree of merit, partakes of the nature of satire. The author had his favourite, Horace, in view, when he drew it up, though the particular allusion in the quotation is to Juvenal:
Si natura negat, facit indignatio versum.
To do't with cloth, &c. is also from this author, but in a higher
Turpe et adulterium mediocribus, hæc eadem illi
Omnia cum faciant nitidi hilaresque vocantur. Sat. xi.
And comes by these degrees the style t'inherit
Of woman of fashion, and a lady of spirit.
Nor is the title question'd with our proud,
Great, brave, and fashion'd folk, these are allow'd ;
Adulteries now are not so hid, or strange,
They're grown commodity upon Exchange:
He that will follow but another's wife,
Is loved, though he let out his own for life;
The husband now's call'd churlish, or a poor
Nature, that will not let his wife be a whore ;
Or use all arts, or haunt all companies
That may corrupt her, even in his eyes.
The brother trades a sister, and the friend
Lives to the lord, but to the lady's end.
Less must not be thought on than mistress; or
If it be thought, kill'd like her embrions; for
Whom no great mistress hath as yet infám'd
A fellow of coarse letchery, is nam'd,
The servant of the serving-woman, in scorn,
Ne'er came to taste the plenteous marriage-horn.
Thus they do talk. And are these objects fit
For man so spend his money on? his wit?
His time, health, soul? Will he for these go throw
Those thousands on his back, shall after blow
His body to the Counters, or the Fleet?
Is it for these that Fine-man meets the street
Coach'd, or on foot-cloth, thrice chang'd every day,
To teach each suit he has, the ready way
From Hyde-park to the stage, where at the last
His dear and borrow'd bravery he must cast?
When not his combs, his curling-irons, his glass,
Sweet bags, sweet powders, nor sweet words will
For less security. O heavens! for these
Is it that man pulls on himself disease,
Surfeit, and quarrel? drinks the t'other health?
Or by damnation voids it, or by stealth?
What fury of late is crept into our feasts?
What honour given to the drunkenest guests?
What reputation to bear one glass more,
When oft the bearer is born out of door?
This hath our ill-us'd freedom, and soft peace
Brought on us, and will every hour increase.
Our vices do not tarry in a place,
But being in motion still, or rather in race,
Tilt one upon another, and now bear
This way, now that, as if their number were
More than themselves, or than our lives could take,
But both fell prest under the load they make.
I'll bid thee look no more, but flee, flee, friend,
This precipice, and rocks that have no end,
Or side, but threatens ruin. The whole day
Is not enough, now, but the nights to play:
And whilst our states, strength, body, and mind we
Go make ourselves the usurers at a cast.
He that no more for age, cramps, palsies can
Now use the bones, we see doth hire a man
To take the box up for him; and pursues
The dice with glassen eyes, to the glad views
Of what he throws: like letchers grown content
To be beholders, when their powers are spent.
Can we not leave this worm? or will we not?
Is that the truer excuse? or have we got
In this, and like, an itch of vanity,
That scratching now's our best felicity?
Well, let it go. Yet this is better, then
To lose the forms and dignities of men,
To flatter my good lord, and cry his bowl
Runs sweetly, as it had his lordship's soul :
Although, perhaps it has, what's that to me,
That may stand by, and hold my peace? will he,
When I am hoarse with praising his each cast,
Give me but that again, that I must waste
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