Thanks to the friend whose happy lines coud cheer
In Derry's oaten soil & frozen air
When to the Citty late I bid farewell
Beneath my firm resolves my scribling fell
The Ghost of my departed Muse you raise
& tune her tongue to long forgotten layes
Thus a poor girl by passion overrun
Tires with the folly & forsakes the town
But if her shades present a powrfull swain
She feels ye woman stirr & loves again
Your thoughts are Just your words fall in wth ease
Who woud not be abused in lines like these
Mindless of all the ill they say of me
I read them & admire their poetry
So when a Charming beauty strikes ye heart
We slight the wound to gaze upon ye dart
But oh My friend of writing much beware
If once you're charmd youre fixd for ever there
Fame all abroad & loose desires with in
Intice a giddy creature to the pen
A Cælia soon he getts to whom to write
& the brisk bottle must compleat ye witt
Then every minute of succeeding time
Invents a frolick or creates a whim
Which his leud absent friend must hear in rime
You'll think (& others have been thus undone)
Your reason can the growing passion shun
But did you know its strength youd doubt your own
Your best endeavours on ye law bestow
Rough as it is 'tis proffitable too
Cowel & Blunt have words & Cook ye way
to keep the wrangling sons of earth in play
then if your books you use your Clients pay
Stay Muse in paths you never trod you rove
My lean advice does my presumption prove
But Can it shew my fault & not my love
Kindly accept what I in kindness send
& think me as I think my self your friend.
