Classic Poem

A Rhiming Letter now and then,
From City Jack to Country Ben ;
Or, if the Verse as well would end,
From John to Benjamin his Friend;
Will still, I hope, as welcome be
As once the Author's Company.

And as 'twas ne'er my Custom, quite
To miss myself in what I write,
So, now I've nothing else to say,
I'll tell thee how I spend the Day.

Imprimis Then, for Methods sake,
('Tis not my Will, so don't mistake)
I'm none of those uneasy Fellows
Who leave at Five o'Clock their Pillows;
I think, as well as sleep, on mine,
And often keep it warm 'till Nine.

If Stock will rise, as soon as up,
I travel to the Rice-Milk Shop:
A Penn'worth is my usual Stint — —
Id est , about a London Pint.

My Fast thus broke, I go and write
Whate'er I study'd over Night — —
If Muse flew high, with limping Feet,
I fill about a Farthing Sheet.
This safely kept 'till Night, it follows,
I read it o'er to Friends at Rollo 's,
Who praise or blame, as they think fit:
For Rollo is himself a Wit .

But whither would the Muse rove on?
'Tis Night before the Morning's gone — —
At Cousin John 's I read the News,
At least, th' Advertisements peruse,
My Garters tie, and wash my Face,
Adjust my Stock and Wig with Grace,
Then take a little Turn abroad — —
No Matter whither, 'tis my Road.

Sometimes indeed, in quest of Trade,
Across Moorfields my Tour is made;
There either Way in Books I deal;
For Pleasure buy, or Dinner sell,
According as my Coin will tell:
Tho' truly, for a good while past,
I've chiefly exercis'd the last.

To Cornhill oft' I us'd to range,
And read the Pamphlets at the ' Change ;
But once, by an unlucky Flirt,
I brush'd one down into the Dirt;
And, having then no Pence to buy,
I've ever since been mighty shy.

But that which fires my Fancy best,
And pleases more than all the rest,
Is, when I silently confer
With Poets' Tombs at Westminster — —
Who knows, think I, what Time may give?
These did not all in Splendor live — —
Methinks I have a Bust in view,
While I am writing this to you.

Rice-Milk at best is hungry Diet,
The Worm no longer will be quiet;
'Tis Twelve o'Clock, I seek Relief
From hot Ox-Cheek , or Leg of Beef :
If Rhino runs too thin, 'tis true,
A Roul, and Bit of Cheese must do:
But if the Crop be pretty rank ,
A Mess of Broth and Slice of Flank.

Well, I have din'd in Thought you know:
Methinks, I wish in Fact 'twere so!
Now Horace may be read a While,
His Thoughts consider'd, and his Stile;
Or else, some Modern of our own,
As Milton, Pope, or Addison ;
Or, when in merrier Mood I am,
Some Page of Swift , or Mat , or Sam .

What never done? I hear thee say —
I'll read no more — — 'tis Market-Day — ]
This once, my little Friend, be stout,
And see a Scribbling Rhimster out!
'Tis Three — — and, not to be prolix,
We'll pass by all the rest 'till Six ;
(Perhaps I take a Game at Skittles,
At some Friend's House read what I've writ else.)
From Six 'till Eight is spent as 'foresaid,
With Wits — of that be there no more said. —

At Eight , says Ben , I go to Bed,
To fit up late disturbs my Head — —
But London Heads, my Friend, are stronger;
And hold it always two Hours longer.
At Eight I leave the Men of Sense,
And Politicks at John 's commence;
Talk over all th' Affairs of Europe ;
What Minister deserves a new Rope;
Which Nation loses Ground, which gets it;
Who forms the Scheme, and who o'ersets it;
What W — — e drives at most, what Fleury — —
I take it thus, how is't in your Eye?

These Points, I say, from Eight 'till Ten ,
I prattle o'er, with other Men —
At Ten , we set the Nations right,
I bid the Company good Night,
Get home to Bed, there think and sleep
'Till Nine next Day — — This course I keep.

'Tis no Epistolary Strain,
Without a Compliment, or Twain —
Take then what Love a Verse can bring,
(If Love in Verse be any Thing)
The greatest Part belongs to you;
The rest divide among the Few
Who best deserve the Name of Friend — —
'Tis not amiss with Love to end.