Dear Brother you will think that now
Epistles grow on every bough,
Oth' multitude of Willsthorp trees,
And so drop off like Soland geese,
In this th' analogie holds forth,
They are produc'd of airy froth,
And how they'll answer in the rest,
Without conjuring may be guess'd
For when you find they want the heat
Of wit and sence, to make 'em meat,
And that the inside's only down,
Soft as the scope they grew upon,
You'll curss this wind's officcious wings,
Because to you no good it brings,
And swear that proverb's now reverss'd
Which so oft his been rehears'd;
For now it must be understood,
Tis happy wind blows any good,
But thank your self for so being serv'd
And praise no more where'ts not deserv'd:
For praise the gad-fly of the minde,
To pure desert, shou'd be confin'd,
Least it set it cock-a-hoop,
And make it run with tail turnd up,
Through the woods, and o'er the downs,
Through Citys, villages and towns,
And plague both genteell fops and rabble,
With its noncence, Rhime, and babble,
Till by its follys they are urged,
To send it home severly scourged,
With the keenest whips of laughing,
Damning, censuring and scoffing,
Then prithee dear, prevent this wretched fate
And all their cruell censures antedate.