At the Tavern we did whisk it, And full Pipes did empty drain: We eat Pint-Pots instead of Bisket, And piss'd 'em melted out again: We beat the Vintner, kiss'd his Wife, And kill'd three Drawers in the strife. IV. In the Street we found some Bullies, And to make our valour known, We call'd 'em Fops, and silly Cullies, And knock'd the foremost of 'em down: And with praise to end the Fray, We, like good Souldiers, ran away. V. To the Play-House we descended, For to get a grain of Wit, Our own with Wine was so defended. We sate spuing in the Pit, 'Mongst Drunken Lords and Whoring Ladies, To see such sights whose only Trade is. A LETTER TO A FRIEND. Thanks for your Praises! were they due, I wou'd Pamper my self with Joy, and think 'em Good. Loaden with Laurels for mine unknown Art, You paint me Great, although beneath Desert. But if _Macenas_ had a lasting Fame, Because the best of Poets us'd his Name; Then Merit justly may to me belong, Because 'tis sung by your all-skilful Tongue. Oft have I blam'd my Stars, that I should be Plagu'd with this soft deluding _Poetry_: This Charming _Mistress_ that has kept my Heart, Quite from a Child, by her bewitching Art. From her glad Fountain I can always find A pleasing Philtre to make _Phillis_ kind: For tell me that coy _Maid_ could ever be Cruel, when urg'd by Charming _Poesie_? _Verse_ is the _Poet's_ Beauty, Wealth and Wit; And what soft _Virgin_ won't be won by it? But, wearied with Delight, I always try Against this Spell to find a Remedy. By good _Divinity_ I think to find A Soveraign Remedy for Soul and Mind: But then, with Holy Flame, I strait do burn, And all to _Hymns_, and _Sacred Anthems_ turn. Nay, when the Night does waking Thoughts redress, And Guardian Angels with our Souls converse, To busie Mortals is the sleeping Time; I dream and slumber all the Night in Rhyme. Then puzling _Logick_ next I take in hand; But this, Alas! can't _Poesie_ withstand. _Barbara_, _Celarent_, I with Ease express, And yoke rough _Ergo's_ into well-made _Verse_: My Faithless Lover's _Syllogism_ tries; I by stout _Logick_ find their _Fallacies_. Then _Scheibler_, _Suarez_, _Bellarmine_ I get, And sound the depth of _Metaphysick_ wit: Streight, in a fret, I damn 'em all at once, And vow they are as dull as _Zabarel_ or _Dunce_. Credit me, _Sir_, no greater plague can be, Than to be poison'd with mad _Poetrie_: Like Pocky Letchers, who have got a Clap, And paid the _Doctor_ for the dear mishap; But newly eased of their nausceous pain, Return unto their wanton Sin again. So Poets be they plague'd with naughty Verse, They never value good nor bad success: Or be they trebly damn'd, they will prefer Their next vile scribling to the _Theater_. Well might the Audience, with their hisses, damn The Bawdy Sot that late wrote _Limberham_: