Classic Poem

Tom
Since thou didst leave both me and this town,
The sword is got up, and the lawes tumbled down
Those eager disputes between Harrington and Wren ,
At length have inspired the Red-coated Men
Whose sides, not their heads, do wear the Lexterrae ,
With which they will rule us until we be weary.
We know not whose highest (what ere people brawle,)
Whether Wallingford-house or Westminster Hall
You made a contest neither pulpit nor tub-like,
What's fittest, a Monarchy or a Republick.
But Desborough sayes, that Scholler's a fool,
That advances his pen against the warr-tool.
We have various discourses and various conjectures,
In Taverns, in Streets, in Sermons, and Lectures.
Yet no man can tell what may hap in the close,
Which are wiser, or honester, these men or those.
But for my part I think 'tis in vain to contest,
I sit still and say, he that's strongest is best .
The World keeps a round, that original sin,
That thrust some people out, drawes other folkes in
They have done they did not know what, and now,
Some think that they do not know what they may do.
But State matters ( Tom ) are too weighty and high,
For such mean private persons as thou art, and I.
We will not our Governours calling invade,
We'le mind our own good, let them follow their trade.
Lanch forth into th'Pulpit much learning will be,
A hinderance to thy Divinity.
'Tis better to mind what will cloath ye, and feed ye,
Then those empty titles of M.A. and D.D
I have one thing to beg, and I won't be deni'd,
You must once more mount Pegasus , and you must ride
Ore the County of D. whose praise must b'exprest,
In a poem to grace our next County feast.
Which will be next term, 'twas what I design'd,
But want wit and time to do't to my mind
Thou hast Subject and wit, if thou hast but a will,
Thou maist make a Poem, next that Coupers-hill
Remember thy promise, to send me my book,
With a copy of thine, for which I doe look;
And let not a Letter come hether to me,
But fraighted with Poems, and written by thee
And I out of gratitude shall take a care,
To make a return of our City ware
I'le vex thee no more with this paltry rythme,
For fear it should make thee mis-spend thy time.
And so I have this Apology for't,
Though it been't very sweet, it shall be prety short.