EPISTLES

FAMILIAR AND HUMOROUS.

EPISTLE I.

FROM

SOAME JENYNS, ESQ.

IN THE COUNTRY,

To the

LORD LOVELACE

IN TOWN

IN days, my Lord, when mother Time,
Though now grown old, was in her prime,
When SATURN first began to rule,

And JOVE was hardly come from school,
How happy was a country life!

How free from wickedness and strife!
Then each man liv'd upon his farm,
And thought and did no mortal harm;
On mossy banks fair virgins slept,
As harmless as the flocks they kept;
Then love was all they had to do,

And nymphs were chaste, and swains were true.

But now, whatever poets write, 'Tis sure the case is alter'd quite,

Virtue no more in rural plains,
Or innocence, or peace remains;
But vice is in the cottage found,
And country girls are oft unsound :
Fierce party-rage each village fires,
With wars of justices and 'squires :
Attorneys, for a barley-straw,
Whole ages hamper folks in law;
And every neighbour's in a flame
About their rates, or tythes, or game:
Some quarrel for their hares and pigeons,
And some for diff'rence in religions:
Some hold their parson the best preacher,
The tinker some a better teacher;

These, to the Church they fight for, strangers,
Have faith in nothing, but her dangers;
While those, a more believing people,
Can swallow all things—but a steeple.

But I, my Lord, who, as you know,
Care little how these matters go,
And equally detest the strife
And usual joys of country life,
Have by good fortune little share
Of its diversions, or its care;
For seldom I with 'squires unite,
Who hunt all day, and drink all night;
Nor reckon wonderful inviting,

A quarter-sessions, or cock-fighting:

But then no farm I occupy,

With sheep to rot and cows to die:
Nor rage I much, or much despair,
Though in my hedge I find a snare;
Nor view I, with due admiration,
All the high honors here in fashion;
The great commissions of the quorum,
Terrors to all who come before 'em ;
Militia scarlet, edg'd with gold,
Or the white staff high-sheriff's hold;
The representative's caressing,
The judge's bow, the bishop's blessing.
Nor can I for my soul delight

In the dull feast of neighb’ring knight,
Who, if you send three days before,
In white gloves meets you at the door,
With superfluity of breeding

First makes you sick, and then with feeding.

Or if with ceremony cloy'd,

You would next time such plagues avoid,

And visit without previous notice,

JOHN, JOHN, a coach!-I can't think who 'tis,

My lady cries, who spies your coach,
Ere you the avenue approach;
Lord, how unlucky!—washing day!
And all the men are in the hay!
Entrance to gain is something hard,
The dogs all bark, the gates are barr'd;
The yard's with lines of linen cross'd,