To a Friend in the Country

Spite of the hub-bub of the town, Between the multitude and crown; To 'scape the sousing of a shower, And crib unto myself an hour; I in a coffee-house took shelter, For troth it rained helter skelter: I know what I had there to do, So down I sat to write to you; Yet I should be most glad to see You do the same, and write to me; Tho' now, you say, you spend your time To better purposes than rhime: Love has stol'n that heart away, That us'd so wantonly to play, On fam'd Parnassus' musing hill, Or near the Heliconian rill; Most glad I am; (and yet I pine So dear a comrade to resign) Most glad I am, the smiling boy Has let you taste Hymenial joy; The most substantial bliss of life, A constant, loving, virtuous wife; With joy I hear; in fancy see, Nor envy your tranquility; I wou'd not covet from a brother, I only wish I'd such another; A country-house as far from town, A horse that I could call my own, A dog and gun at my command, Well match'd or trained to my hand: To hear the bleating herds complain; When land-storms drive them from the plain; Or when at morn with joy they bleat, Their fleecy friends again to meet: And then reflect on what I've seen, When I've in Covent-Garden been; Where thieves and vintners, pimps and whores, Croud around their hellish doors; A tricking, flatt'ring, fawning race, Who're glad to whisper your disgrace; But loudly to your face commend, And give you credit like a friend; But soon they bring you to repent, And raise your debt to ten per cent. Yet hold, my Muse, I prithee hold, The shower's o'er, my coffee cold; Pray do not run me out of rhime, Left I shou'd want another time.