Classic Poem

Dear friends if you'll be rul'd by me,
Be ware oth' charmes of poetry,
And meddle with no fauning muse,
They'll but your harmless loves abuse,
Though to Orinda, they were ty'd
That nought their friendship cou'd divide,
And Cowleys mistress had a flame,
As pure and lasting as his fame,
Yet now they'r all grown prostitutes,
And wantonly admit the sutes,
Of any fops that will pretend
To be their servant or their friend
Who then wou'd honour such a she
Where foolls their happier rivalls be.
We surly may conclude there's none,
unless they'r drunk with Helicon.
Which is a liquor that can make
A dunce set up for Rhiming quack,
That who'so drinks therof is curss'd
To a constant Rhiming thirst
I know not by what spell of witch
It strikes the mind into an itch,
Which being scrub'd by praise thereby,
Becomes a spreading leprosie,
As hard to cure as dice or W — r
And makes the patient too, as poor;
For poverty's the certain fate
Which attends a poets state,
Hence then I banish it my brest,
Rather than be to fools a jest,
I'll to old Mammon be a bride,
Be ugly as his ore untry'd
Do every thing for sordid ends
Cerress my foes betray my friends.
Speak fair to all do good to none,
Nor care who's happy, who undone,
But run, where intrest pushes on
Do any thing, to quench poetick flame,
And begg you all my friends to do the same.