Classic Poem

What though I writ a tedious Letter,
Whereas a shorter had been better,
And that 'twas writ in Moor-lands Metre,
To make it run, I thought, the sweeter,
Yet there was nought in that Epistle
At which your Worship ought to bristle;
For though it was too long, 'twas civil,
And though the Rhime, 'tis true, was evil,
I will maintain 'twas well meant yet,
And full of heart, though void of wit:
Why, with a Horse-Pox, then should you,
I thought my Friend, keep such adoe,
And set Tom Weaver on my back,
Because I ha'n't forsooth the knack
To please your over-dainty ear;
(Impossible for me I fear)
Nor can my Poesy strew with Posies
Of Red, White, Damask, Provense Roses,
Bears-ears, Anemonies, and Lillies,
As he did in Diebus illis?
What man! all Amblers are not Couryats,
Neither can all who Rhime be Laureats:
Besides the Moor-lands not a Clime is,
Nor of the year it now the time is
To gather Flowers, I suppose,
Either for Poetry or Prose;
Therefore, kind Sir, in courteous fashion.
I wish you spare your expectation.
And since you may be thin of clothing,
(Something being better too than nothing)
Winter now growing something rough,
I send you here a piece of Stuff,
Since your old Weaver 's dead and gone,
To make a Fustian Wastcoat on.
Accept it, and I'll rest your Debtor,
When more Wit sends it, I'll send better.

And here I cannot pretermit
To that Epitome of Wit,
Knowledge and Art, to him whom we
Saucily call, and I more saucily
Presume to write the little d .
All that your Language can improve,
Of Service, Honour, and of Love:
After whose Name the rest I know
Would sound so very flat and low,
They must excuse, if in this case
I wind them up Et Caetera's .

Lastly, that in my tedious Scribble
I may not seem incorrigible,
I will conclude by telling you
(And on my honest word 'tis true)
I long as much as new made Bride
Does for the Marriage Even Tide,
Your plump Corpusculum t' imbrace,
In this abominable place:
And therefore when the Spring appears,
(Till when short days will seem long years)
And that under this scurvy hand,
I give you, Sir, to understand,
In April, May , or then abouts,
Doves People are your humble Trouts.
Be sure you do not fail but come
To make the Peak Elizium ;
Where you shall find then, and for ever,
As true a Friend as was Tom Weaver .