Yet say that out of order ther's one curl, And all the hopes of your reward you furl.<90.5> Write a deep epick poem, and you may As soon delight them as the opera, Where they Diogenes thought in his tub, Never so sowre did look so sweet a club. You that do suck for thirst your black quil's blood,<90.6> And chaw your labour'd papers for your food, I will inform you how and what to praise, Then skin y' in satin as young Lovelace plaies. Beware, as you would your fierce guests, your lice, To strip the cloath of gold from cherish'd vice; Rather stand off with awe and reverend fear, Hang a poetick pendant in her ear, Court her as her adorers do their glasse, Though that as much of a true substance has, Whilst all the gall from your wild<90.7> ink you drain, The beauteous sweets of vertues cheeks to stain; And in your livery let her be known, As poor and tatter'd as in her own. Nor write, nor speak you more of sacred writ, But what shall force up your arrested wit. Be chast; religion and her priests your scorn, Whilst the vain fanes of idiots you adorn. It is a mortal errour, you must know, Of any to speak good, if he be so. Rayl, till your edged breath flea<90.8> your raw throat, And burn remarks<90.9> on all of gen'rous note; Each verse be an indictment, be not free Sanctity 't self from thy scurrility. Libel your father, and your dam buffoon, The noblest matrons of the isle lampoon, Whilst Aretine and 's bodies you dispute, And in your sheets your sister prostitute. Yet there belongs a sweetnesse, softnesse too, Which you must pay, but first, pray, know to who. There is a creature, (if I may so call That unto which they do all prostrate fall) Term'd mistress, when they'r angry; but, pleas'd high, It is a princesse, saint, divinity. To this they sacrifice the whole days light, Then lye with their devotion all night; For this you are to dive to the abysse, And rob for pearl the closet of some fish. Arabia and Sabaea you must strip Of all their sweets, for to supply her lip; And steal new fire from heav'n, for to repair Her unfledg'd scalp with Berenice's hair; Then seat her in Cassiopeia's chair. As now you're in your coach: save you, bright sir, (O, spare your thanks) is not this finer far Then walk un-hided, when that every stone Has knock'd acquaintance with your ankle-bone? When your wing'd papers, like the last dove, nere Return'd to quit you of your hope or fear, But left you to the mercy of your host And your days fare, a fortified toast.<90.10> How many battels, sung in epick strain, Would have procur'd your head thatch from the rain Not all the arms of Thebes and Troy would get One knife but to anatomize your meat, A funeral elegie, with a sad boon,<90.11> Might make you (hei!) sip wine like maccaroon;<90.12> But if perchance there did a riband<90.13> come, Not the train-band so fierce with all its drum: Yet with your torch you homeward would retire, And heart'ly wish your bed your fun'ral pyre.