_However, I must not neglect to desire this one Favour of you, that after you have taken the pains to peruse these undigested Lines, you would be pleased to bestow on them a Funeral Fire; or if you apprehend that Sentence to be too severe, I do most earnestly beg of you to keep them Secret to your self, without shewing them to your trustiest Friend, at least, with my Name_ _to them. It were superfluous now to engage you not to convey them to the Censorious World through the Press, since that, and more was already by the precedent Caution imply'd; besides, the Opinion I have of your Candour, is better grounded, than to admit of any such Jealousie._ _I will now only add my most hearty Thanks for all your Favours, particularly for the Piece of Gold I Received inclosed in your last Letter; and had some others of my Relations proved as kind to me as your self, or had I in my own Countrey met with encouragement any way sutable to my Endeavours, I had not in this Passion shaken hands with it. But now I am in hast to be gone, yet will for ever remain,_ _Dearest Cousin!_ Your assured, Faithful Friend, and most Humble Servant. Dated at _Dover_ the Tenth day of _January, 1680/1_. POETA DE TRISTIBUS: OR, THE Poet's Complaint. A POEM. _The First CANTO._ Since here I'm bandy'd up and down By the keen blows of Fortunes frown, Whil'st Art and Nature vainly strive To make th' unhappy Poet live; I'le fly such Native Plagues as these For Refuge, to the calmer Seas: And try if boading Stars dispence Ev'ry where the same influence. Climes vary Constitutions, so Why may not they change Fortunes too? Through th' habitable World I'le go, And if that fails, I'le search for new. Wit somewhere has a happy Reign, Or Nature gives us Thoughts in vain. Tho' here her bounty she provides For ev'ry thing which breaths besides. The Dunce made Batchelor of Art, Some Fustian Sermon learns by heart, Then Preaches 'fore a Country Squire,} Who his deep Learning does admire, } And gives him sixscore pounds a year.} But he must Marry th' Chamber-Maid, Who is, forsooth, a Mistress made: So he goes on with a fair hope, And of his Pulpit makes a Shop. So Quacks as eas'ly as they will, Can get Licenses to kill, Whil'st the hungry Poet may } For an _Imprimatur_ stay, } Till h'has eaten up his Play.} Yet since the Press has lately had Its Liberty, 'tis near as bad. For scarce a broken Shop-keeper, Or a cast Serving man grown bare, But herds among our starved Crew, And falls a Writing Poems too. The Plot, the Jesuit, and the Pope Are now grown Theams for ev'ry Fop. Who by such wretched, Ballad-ware, Makes Writing cheap, and Paper dear.