A Familiar Epistle to a Friend: Occasioned by the Author's Seeing His Name in the List of Deaths in a Magazine

No doubt, ere this, the magazine, Your monthly nostrum for the spleen, Hath reach'd your hands at K. The list of deaths, of course, you've read, Turn'd up your eyes, and shook your head, And cry'd, good-lack-a-day!

But, having not deserv'd so ill, That in your testamental will, I should be quite forgotten, I'm thinking how the folks will stare, If kindly you should make an heir Of one, thought dead and rotten.

Thus, to prevent mistakes, I send T' assure my best, my worthiest friend, His magazine tells lies: So the maim'd soldier, 'mong the slain, Just ready to be stripp'd, in pain, Aloud for mercy cries.

For men may lose a limb, or wife, Yet lead a not-unpleasant life, Nor pine away with sorrow: Hearty as any buck alive, And little more than thirty-five, Why may'nt I live to-morrow?

I hear you, clearing up your brow, Reply, "You live! wild Coz—but how? "How live you?—Tell me that. "For tho' perhaps I am not willing "To cut you off with just a shilling, "If said, 'tis done; that's flat.

"Pray, tell me; are you rich or poor? "Can'st keep the wolf-dogs from the door? "How stand you with his grace? "How comes it such quick parts as yours "Get not some pretty sine-cures, "A pension, or some place?"

Why faith, good Sir, to tell you true, I wish I were as rich as you: But, prodigal in grain, At school my little weekly cash Went all in whips, and tops, and trash, Improvident of gain.

Nor, growing up, did e'er I chuse For lords to fetch and carry news, Like spaniels for a crust. With bread by labour earn'd, I'd rather Keep soul and body just together, Till dust return to dust.

Contented I can sit me down, Snug in the midst of this vile town, As in a village cot; Treat e'en our patriots with a sneer, See W—s a wanderer, P—t a peer; Preferring neither's lot.

Can see at ease (while oft a friend Calls in a leisure hour to spend, And nurse my winter's fire) Rich knaves in gilded coaches roll, And truly pity, from my soul, What half the world admire.

Not that I've learn'd in stoic school To live and move by line and rule: No.—If I had it, friend, My lavish soul could give away, With rapture, more in half a day, Than dukes in years could spend.

For others have I drawn a bill? I've paid it—or—I owe it still; And want no credit yet. You know what Milton's devil says, "True gratitude, tho nought it pays, "Is ever out of debt."

My youthful errors, then, forgive; And know I live, and how I live;— Imprudently, 'tis true: But there, my friend, the difference lies, Between the witty and the wise, Between your coz and you.