To Mr. Edward Guilpin

Even as lame things thirst their perfection, so
The slimy rhymes bred in our vale below,
Bearing with them much of my love and heart,
Fly unto that Parnassus, where thou art.
There thou o’erseest London: here I have been
By staying in London, too much overseen.
Now pleasure’s dearth our city doth posses,
Our theatres are filled with emptiness;
As lank and thin is every street and way
As a woman delivered yesterday.
Nothing whereat to laugh my spleen espies
But bearbaitings or Law exercise.
Therefore I’ll leave it, and in the country strive
Pleasure, now fled from London, to retrieve.
Do thou so too: and fill not like a bee
Thy thighs with honey, but as plenteously
As Russian merchants, thyself’s whole vessel load,
And then at winter retail it here abroad.
Bless us with Suffolk’s sweets; and as that is
Thy garden, make thy hive and warehouse this.