of purpose
borrowed to feather some slower hours; and what you see here is but the
interest: it is one of his whose Roman pen had as much true passion for
the infirmities of that state, as we should have pity to the
distractions of our own: honest--I am sure--it is, and offensive cannot
be, except it meet with such spirits that will quarrel with antiquity,
or purposely arraign themselves. These indeed may think that they have
slept out so many centuries in this satire and are now awakened; which,
had it been still Latin, perhaps their nap had been everlasting. But
enough of these,--it is for you only that I have adventured thus far,
and invaded the press with verse; to whose more noble indulgence I shall
now leave it, and so am gone.--

H. V.

TO MY INGENUOUS FRIEND, R. W.

When we are dead, and now, no more
Our harmless mirth, our wit, and score
Distracts the town; when all is spent
That the base niggard world hath lent
Thy purse, or mine; when the loath'd noise
Of drawers, 'prentices and boys
Hath left us, and the clam'rous bar
Items no pints i' th' Moon or Star;
When no calm whisp'rers wait the doors,
To fright us with forgotten scores;
And such aged long bills carry,
As might start an antiquary;
When the sad tumults of the maze,
Arrests, suits, and the dreadful face
Of sergeants are not seen, and we
No lawyers' ruffs, or gowns must fee:
When all these mulcts are paid, and I
From thee, dear wit, must part, and die;
We'll beg the world would be so kind,
To give's one grave as we'd one mind;
There, as the wiser few suspect,
That spirits after death affect,
Our souls shall meet, and thence will they,
Freed from the tyranny of clay,
With equal wings, and ancient love
Into the Elysian fields remove,
Where in those blessed walks they'll find
More of thy genius, and my mind.
First, in the shade of his own bays,
Great Ben they'll see, whose sacred lays
The learned ghosts admire, and throng
To catch the subject of his song.
Then Randolph in those holy meads,
His _Lovers_ and _Amyntas_ reads,
Whilst his Nightingale, close by,
Sings his and her own elegy.
From thence dismiss'd, by subtle roads,
Through airy paths and sad abodes,
They'll come into the drowsy fields
Of Lethe, whi