To His Reverend Friend, Mr. John Flavel

Letters of Mart of his dear Servant given,

By him that fits the ruffling winds of heaven:

To fight, and take all such as would not deign

To acknowledge him the Seas great Sovereign.

He launched his little Pinnace, and began

To attaque the vassals of Leviathan.

Auspicious gales swelling his winged Sails,

Searches all creeks, and every Bark he hails,

That scarce a Ship our Western Coasts afford

Which this brave Pinnace has not laid aboard.

And what among our riddles some might count,

Was seen at once at Barwick, and the Mount.

Indeed, in more Ports has in one lustre been,

Than Hawkins, Drake, or Cavendish have seen,

And Prizes of more worth brought home again,

Than all the Plate-Fleets of the Kings of Spain.

But that which makes the wonder swell the more,

Those whom he took were Beggars all before.

But rests he here? No, no, our friend does know

'Tis good to have two strings to his Bow.

Our rare Amphibion loves not to be pent

Within the bounds, of one poor Element,

Besides the learned Author understood,

That of an idle hand there comes no good,

The Law to him no Pulpit does allow,

And now he cannot Preach, he means to Plow

Though Preaching were a crime, yet he foresaw

Against the Plowman there could be no Law.

Nor stays he on resolves, but out of hand

He yokes his Team, plows up the stubborn Land:

Sows it with precious Seed, harrows again

The tougher clods: takes pleasure in his pain.

While Orph'us like, (which does his Art advance)

Rocks, Fields, and Woods after his pipe do dance.

Industrious spirit, to what a rich account

With your blessed Lord, will all these labours mount?

That every nerve of your blessed soul do ply,

To further heaven's Spiritual Husbandry.

This kind of Tillage which you teach us,

Was never dreamt of by Triptolemus.

Go Reader, turn the leaves; and me allow

To pray (while at your work) God speed the Plow.

NICHOLAS WATTS.