Iter Boreal 2, Letter – Poem 13
A Letter to a Friend.
Generous Sir,
ON Saturdy laſt (the Day and Weather being as ſad and dumpiſh as old Saturn himſelf) whileſt I was in my Study (my Books and my ſelf muſty and melancholy) and my proviſions for the next Day as poor as ever were made by Countrey Curate, ſometimes ſcratching that which goes for my Head, and then biting my Nails for offending my Noddle; In comes your Friendly Letter (the welcomeſt Quarter-maſter that ever came to my Houſe) to take up Quarters for that gallant Mans Works (and if ever Good Works merited, they do) Doctor Reynolds. Sir, They no ſooner entred my Study—but all my Books ſeem'd to diſappear, as the Stars do at the riſing of the Sun: You cannot imagine what fear, ſhame, confuſion, and envy, my poor Shelves diſcovered; Some poor Authors ſtood gaſping—others tumbled down, and others burſt their Bindings—reſolving to break Priſon, rather than ſtand before ſuch a Judge of Learning. Thoſe few Fathers (which I had) ſeemed to meet in a Councel, what they ſhould do, whether ſtay or depart. Old Origen began, but he was ſo full of Allegories, and whimſeys, they could not tell what to ſay to him; but ſure he and they all were troubled, for fear (good men) that they ſhould now be ejected in their old Age. Juſt in thought that he ſhould again be a Martyr, and burnt to light Tobacco. Tertullian began to make Apologies; and Auſtin himſelf fell to his Confeſſions and Retractions. As for Hierom, as good a Scholar as he was, he wiſhed himſelf again on his Pilgrimage: and my poor Country-man Bede got into a corner, and fell to his Beeds. On another ſhelf (for I have not many) my School-men looked like Schoolboys, and ſtood with their ſtrings untied, ready untruſſed for Correction. Aquinas himſelf wiſhed he had not ſuch ſumms to reckon for; and all the Popiſh Authors I had fell to croſſing themſelves. But what a caſe (if my ſtout Folioes and old Authors fainted thus) do you think my Infantry—my. Modern men, my Quarto and Octavo Striplings were in? Yea, ſome of our own Engliſh (men of many Editions, & worthy to be bound and gilded) gave back, and thruſt one another: Dod and Clever were both ſilenced; Doctor Preſtons All-ſufficiency pleaded Inſufficiency—Thomas Goodwin pulled his Caps in his Eyes, and became a Child of Light in Darkneſs—As for John Goodwin, he logot for a General Redemption of them all; but his Subſizer, poor Pierce, was afraid. at the Doctors coming in, that he and his corrected Copy, ſhould be again ſent to the Houſe of Correction. As for my Pamphlets and traſh, they crouded together; and having no manner of Cover for themſelves, many of them wiſh'd Giles Calvert hang'd for Printing them, and themſelves burn'd out of the way. Thus Sir, It was with my Study: But for my ſelf, oh how I was revived and raviſh'd! No ſooner did that Book, big with Chriſt, enter and ſalute me (pardon the alluſion) but my heart, like John in his Mothers belly, leap'd for joy. No ſooner did open, and taſte the Honey, but mine Eyes were enlightned, and I mended in an inſtant. The Vanity of the Creature made me ſerious, the Sinfulneſs of Sin humbled me, the Life of Chriſt quickned me; the 110 Pſalm made me ſing, the Lords Supper feaſted me,—the Prophet Hoſea inſpired me, and the Paſſions exceedingly affected me. What ſhall I ſay, or do? I cannot hold, but muſt fall out of trotting heavy Proſe into an amble of Rhyming.—
From a kind Hand there came t' enrich a place
In my poor Study,—the rare Works and Face
Of Learned Reverend Reynolds—I receive
The Book with joy—but no Gift (by your leave)
And for the Book, and for my ſelf, I vow
I ne'r had Piece could make me Preach till now:
I'll pay for't (Sir) And—(which I ne'r ſhall do)
When I can write ſuch—you ſhall print them too.
Mean time I propheſie, this Volume will
Make both your Roſe and Crown to flouriſh ſtill.
Sir, accept and pardon this traſh,—next Term I ſhall be in London, and then perſonally prove what I now ſet my Hand to—(viz.) That I am
Yours moſt Cordially, R. W.
Alas poor Scholar, VVhither wilt thou go? OR Strange Alterations which at this time be, There's many did think they never ſhould ſee.
IN a Melancholy Study,
None but my ſelf,
Methought my Muſe grew muddy;
After ſeven years Reading,
And coſtly breeding,
I felt, but could find no pelf:
Into Learned Rags
I've rent my Pluſh and Satten,
And now am fit to beg
In Hebrew, Greek, and Latin;
In ſtead of Ariſtotle,
Would I had got a Patten.
Alas poor Scholar! whither wilt thou go?
Cambridge now I muſt leave thee,
And follow Fate,
Colledge hopes do deceive me!
I oft expected
To have been elected,
But Deſert is reprobate.
Maſters of Colledges
Have no common Graces,
And they that have Fellowſhips
Have but common Places,
And thoſe that Scholars are
They muſt have handſome faces:
Alas poor Scholar, whither wilt thou go?
I have bow'd, I have bended,
And all in hope
One day to be befriended.
I have preach'd, I have printed
What e'r I hinted,
To pleaſe our Engliſh Pope:
I worſhip'd towards the Eaſt,
But the Sun doth now forſake me?
I find that I am falling,
The Northern winds do ſhake me:
Would I had been upright,
For Bowing now will break me:
At great Preferment I aimed,
Witneſs my Silk;
But now my hopes are maimed:
I looked lately
To live moſt ſtately,
And have a Dairy of Bell-ropes Milk;
But now alas,
My ſelf I muſt not flatter,
Bigamy of Steeples
Is a laughing matter;
Each man muſt have but one,
And Curates will grow fatter.
Alas poor Scholar, whither wilt thou go?
Into ſome Country Village
Now I muſt go,
Where neither Tythe nor Tillage
The greedy Patron
And parched Matron
Swear to the Church they owe:
Yet if I can Preach,
And pray too on a ſudden,
And confure the Pope
At adventure, without ſtudying,
Then ten pounds a year,
Beſides a Sunday Pudding.
All the Arts I have skill in,
Divine and Humane,
Yet all's not worth a Shilling;
When the Women hear me,
They do but jeer me,
And ſay, I am profane:
Once, I remember,
I preached with a Weaver,
I quoted Auſtin.
He quoted Dod and Clever;
I nothing got,
He got a Cloak and Beaver:
Alas poor Scholar, whither wilt thou go?
Ships, Ships, Ships, I diſcover,
Croſſing the Main;
Shall I in, and go over,
Turn Jew, or Atheiſt,
Turk, or Papiſt,
To GenevA, or Amſterdam?
Biſhopricks are void
In Scotland, ſhall I thither?
Or follow Windebank
And Finch, to ſee if either
Do want a Prieſt to ſhrive them?
O no, 'tis bluſt'ring weather.
Alas poor Scholar, whither wilt thou go?
Ho, ho, ho, I have hit it,
Peace good-man Fool;
Thou haſt a Trade will fit it;
Draw thy Indenture,
Be bound at adventure
An Apprentice to a Free-School;
There thou mayſt command
By William Lylies Charter;
There thou mayſt whip, ſtrip,
And hang, and draw, and quarter,
And commit to the Red Rod
Both Will, and Tom, and Arthur.
l, l, 'tis thither, thither will I go.
R. W.