EPISTLE, from Fern-Hill. To the same. Charlot, who my controller is chief, And dearly loves a little mischief, Whene'er I talk of packing up, To all my measures puts a stop: And tho' I plunge from bad to worse, Grown duller than her own dull horse; Yet out of Complaisance exceeding, Or pure Perverseness, call'd Good-breeding, Will never let me have my way In any thing I do, or say. At table, if I ask for Veal, In complaisance, she gives me Quail. I like your Beer; 'tis brisk, and fine — "O no; John, give Miss — some Wine." And tho' from two to four you stuff, She never thinks you're sick enough: In vain your Hunger's cur'd, and Thirst; If you'd oblige her, you must burst. Whether in pity, or in ire, Sometimes I'm seated next the fire; So very close, I pant for breath, In pure Good-manners scorch'd to death. Content I feel her kindness kill, I only beg to make my Will; But still in all I do, or say, This nusance Breeding's in the way; O'er which to step I'm much to lazy, And too obliging to be easy. Oft do I cry, I'm almost undone To see our Friends in Brooke-street, London. As seriously the Nymph invites Her slave to stay till moon-shine nights. Lo! from her lips what Language breaks! What sweet perswasion, when she speaks! Her Words so soft! her Sense so strong! I only wish — to slit her Tongue. But this, you'll say's to make a clutter, Forsooth! about one's bread and butter. Why, be it so; yet I'll aver, That I'm as great a plague to Her; For well-bred folks are ne'er so civil, As when they wish you at the D—I. So, Charlot, for our mutual ease, Let's e'en shake hands, and part in peace; To keep me here, is but to teaze ye, To let me go, would be to ease ye. As when (to speak in phrase more humble) The Gen'ral's guts begin to grumble, Whate'er the cause that inward stirs, Or pork, or pease, or wind, or worse; He wisely thinks the more 'tis pent, The more 'twill struggle for a vent: So only begs you'll hold your nose, And gently lifting up his clothes, Away th' imprison'd vapour flies, And mounts a zephyr to the skies. So I (with rev'rence be it spoken) Of such a Guest am no bad token; In Charlot's chamber ever rumbling, Her Pamphlets, and her Papers tumbling, Displacing all the things she places, And, as is usual in such cases, Making her cut most sad wry faces. Yet, spite of all this rebel rout, She's too well bred to let me out, For fear you squeamish Nymphs at Court (Virgins of not the best report) Should on the tale malicious dwell, When me you see, or of me tell. O Charlot! when alone we sit, Laughing at all our own (no) wit, You wisely with your Cat at play, I reading Swift, and spilling tea; How would it please my ravish'd ear, To hear you, from your easy chair, With look serene, and brow uncurl'd, Cry out, A — for all the world! But You, a slave to too much breeding, And I, a fool, with too much reading, Follow the hive, as bees their drone, Without one purpose of our own: Till tir'd with blund'ring and mistaking, We die sad fools of others making. Stand it recorded on yon post, That both are fools then, to our cost! The question's only, which is most? I, that I never yet have shewn One steady purpose of my own; Or You, with both your blue eyes waking, Run blund'ring on, by Choice mistaking? — Alas! we both might sleep contented, Our errors purg'd, our faults repented; Could you, unmov'd, a squeamish look meet, Or I forget our Friend in Brooke-Street.