EPISTLE TO JOHN BRADSHAW, ESQ.: 3 by CHARLES COTTON

III

WHAT though I writ a tedious letter,
Whereas a shorter had been better,
And that 'twas writ in Moor-lands metre,
To make it run, I thought, the sweeter,
Yet there was nought in that epistle
At which your Worship ought to bristle;
For though it was too long, 'twas civil,
And though the Rhyme, 'tis true, was evil,
I will maintain 'twas well meant yet,
And full of heart, though void of wit:
Why, with a horse-pox, then should you,
I thought my Friend, keep such ado,
And set Tom Weaver on my back,
Because I ha'n't forsooth the knack
To please your over-dainty ear;
(Impossible for me I fear)
Nor can my Poesy strew with posies
Of red, white, damask, Provence roses,
Bears-ears, anemonies and lillies,
As he did in @3Diebus illis?@1
What man! all amblers are not Couryats,
Neither can all who rhyme be Laureats:
Besides the Moor-lands not a clime is,
Nor of the year it now the time is
To gather flowers, I suppose,
Either for Poetry or Prose;
Therefore, kind Sir, in courteous fashion,
I wish you spare your expectation.
And since you may be thin of clothing,
(Something being better too than nothing)
Winter now growing something rough,
I send you here a piece of stuff,
Since your old Weaver's dead and gone,
To make a fustian waistcoat on.
Accept it, and I'll rest your debtor,
When more Wit sends it, I'll send better.

And here I cannot pretermit
To that Epitome of Wit,
Knowledge and Art, to him whom we
Saucily call, and I more saucily
Presume to write the little @3d.@1
All that your language can improve,
Of service, honour and of love:
After whose Name the rest I know
Would sound so very flat and low,
They must excuse, if in this case
I wind them up @3et caetera's.@1

Lastly, that in my tedious scribble
I may not seem incorrigible,
I will conclude by telling you
(And on my honest word 'tis true)
I long as much as new made bride
Does for the marriage eventide;
Your plump corpusculum t' embrace,
In this abominable place:
And therefore when the Spring appears,
(Till when short days will seem long years)
And that under this scurvy hand,
I give you, sir, to understand,
In April, May, or then abouts,
Dove's people are your humble trouts,
Be sure you do not fail but come
To make the Peak Elysium;
Where you shall find then, and for ever,
As true a friend * as was Tom Weaver.

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