AN EPISTLE TO FLEETWOOD SHEPHARD , Esq Burleigh , May 14 , 1689. SIR , As once a Twelvemonth to the Priest , Holy at Rome , here Antichrist , The Spanish King presents a Jennet , To show his Love : — That's all that's in it : For if his Holiness would thump His reverend Bum 'gainst Horse's Rump ; He might b' equipt from his own Stable With one more White , and eke more Able . Or as with Gondola's and Men , His Good Excellence the Duke of Venice ( I wish , for Rhime , 't had been the King ) Sails out , and gives the Gulph a Ring ; Which Trick of State , He wisely maintains , Keeps Kindness up 'twixt old Acquaintance : For else , in honest Truth , the Sea Has much less need of Gold than He . Or , not to rove , and pump one's Fancy For Popish Similies beyond Sea ; As Folks from Mud-wall'd Tenement Bring Landlords Pepper-corn for Rent ; Present a Turkey , or a Hen To Those might better spare Them Ten : Ev'n so with all Submission , I ( For first Men instance , then apply ) Send You each Year a homely Letter , Who may return Me much a better . Then take it , Sir , as it was writ , To pay Respect , and not show Wit : Nor look askew at what it saith : There's no Petition in it — ' Faith . Here some would scratch their Heads , and try What They should write , and How , and Why : But I conceive , such Folks are quite in Mistakes , in Theory of Writing . If once for Principle 'tis laid , That Thought is Trouble to the Head ; I argue thus : The World agrees , That He writes well , who writes with Ease : Then He , by Sequel Logical , Writes best , who never thinks at all . Verse comes from Heav'n , like inward Light ; Meer human Pains can ne'er come by't : The God , not We , the Poem makes : We only tell Folks what He speaks . Hence , when Anatomists discourse , How like Brutes Organs are to Our's ; They grant , if higher Powers think fit , A Bear might soon be made a Wit ; And that , for any thing in Nature , Pigs might squeak Love-Odes , Dogs bark Satyr . Memnon , tho' Stone , was counted vocal ; But 'twas the God , mean while , that spoke all . Rome oft has heard a Cross haranguing , With prompting Priest behind the Hanging : The Wooden Head resolv'd the Question ; While You and Pettis help'd the Jest on . Your crabbed Rogues , that read Lucretius , Are against Gods , You know ; and teach us , The God makes not the Poet ; but The Thesis , vice-versâ put , Should Hebrew-wise be understood ; And means , The Poet makes the God . Ægyptian Gard'ners thus are said to Have set the Leeks they after pray'd to ; And Romish Bakers praise the Deity They chipp'd , while yet in it's Paniety . That when You Poets swear and cry , The God inspires ! I rave ! I die ! If inward Wind does truly swell Ye , 'T must be the Cholick in your Belly : That Writing is but just like Dice ; And lucky Mains make People Wise : That jumbled Words , if Fortune throw 'em , Shall , well as Dryden , form a Poem ; Or make a Speech , correct and witty , As You know who — at the Committee . So Atoms dancing round the Center , They urge , made all Things at a Venture . But granting Matters should be spoke By Method , rather than by Luck ; This may confine their younger Styles , Whom Dryden pedagogues at Will's : But never could be meant to tye Authentic Wits , like You and I : For as young Children , who are try'd in Go-Carts , to keep their Steps from sliding ; When Members knit , and Legs grow stronger , Make use of such Machine no longer ; But leap pro Libitu , and scout On Horse call'd Hobby , or without : So when at School we first declaim , Old Busbey walks us in a Theme , Whose Props support our Infant Vein , And help the Rickets in the Brain : But when our Souls their Force dilate , And Thoughts grow up to Wit's Estate ; In Verse or Prose , We write or chat , Not Six-Pence Matter upon what . 'Tis not how well an Author says ; But 'tis how much , that gathers Praise . Tonson , who is himself a Wit , Counts Writers Merits by the Sheet . Thus each should down with all he thinks , As Boys eat Bread , to fill up Chinks . Kind Sir , I should be glad to see You ; I hope Y' are well ; so God be wi' You ; Was all I thought at first to write : But Things , since then , are alter'd quite ; Fancies flow in , and Muse flies high : So God knows when my Clack will lye : I must , Sir , prattle on , as afore , And beg your Pardon yet this half Hour . So at pure Barn of loud Non-Con , Where with my Granam I have gone , When Lobb had sifted all his Text , And I well hop'd the Pudding next ; Now to apply , has plagu'd me more , Than all his Villain Cant before . For your Religion , first , of Her Your Friends do sav'ry Things aver : They say , She's honest , as your Claret , Not sowr'd with Cant , nor stum'd with Merit : Your Chamber is the sole Retreat Of Chaplains ev'ry Sunday Night : Of Grace , no doubt , a certain Sign , When Lay-Man herds with Man Divine : For if their Fame be justly great , Who would no Popish Nuncio treat ; That His is greater , We must grant , Who will treat Nuncio's Protestant . One single Positive weighs more , You know , than Negatives a Score . In Politicks , I hear , You're stanch , Directly bent against the French ; Deny to have your free-born Toe Dragoon'd into a Wooden Shoe : Are in no Plots ; but fairly drive at The Publick Welfare in your Private : And will , for England's Glory , try Turks , Jews , and Jesuits to defy , And keep your Places 'till You die . For me , whom wand'ring Fortune threw From what I lov'd , the Town and You ; Let me just tell You how my Time is Past in a Country-Life . — Imprimis , As soon as Phoebus' Rays inspect us , First , Sir , I read ; and then I Breakfast ; So on , 'till foresaid God does set , I sometimes Study , sometimes Eat . Thus , of your Heroes and brave Boys , With whom old Homer makes such Noise , The greatest Actions I can find , Are , that They did their Work , and din'd . The Books of which I'm chiefly fond , Are such , as You have whilom con'd ; That treat of China's Civil Law , And Subjects Rights in Golconda ; Of Highway-Elephants at Ceylan , That rob in Clans , like Men o' th' Highland ; Of Apes that storm , or keep a Town , As well almost , as Count Lauzun ; Of Unicorns and Alligators , Elks , Mermaids , Mummies , Witches , Satyrs , And twenty other stranger Matters ; Which , tho' they're Things I've no Concern in , Make all our Grooms admire my Learning . Criticks I read on other Men , And Hypers upon Them again ; From whose Remarks I give Opinion On twenty Books , yet ne'er look in One . Then all your Wits , that flear and sham , Down from Don Quixote to Tom Tram ; From whom I Jests and Punns purloin , And slily put 'em off for Mine : Fond to be thought a Country Wit : The rest , — when Fate and You think fit . Sometimes I climb my Mare , and kick her To bottl'd Ale , and neighb'ring Vicar ; Sometimes at Stamford take a Quart , 'squire Shephard's Health — With all my Heart . Thus , without much Delight , or Grief , I fool away an idle Life ; 'Till Shadwell from the Town retires ( Choak'd up with Fame and Sea-coal Fires ) To bless the Wood with peaceful Lyric ; Then hey for Praise and Panegyric , Justice restor'd , and Nations freed , And Wreaths round William's glorious Head .