To M[r]. T. W.

HASTE thee, harsh verse, as fast as thy lame measure

Will give thee leave, to him—my pain and pleasure.

I’ve given thee, and yet thou art too weak,

Feet, and a reasoning soul, and tongue to speak.

Tell him all questions, which men have defended,

Both of the place and pains of hell, are ended;

And ’tis decreed, our hell is but privation

Of him, at least in this earth’s habitation.

And ’tis where I am, where in every street

Infections follow, overtake, and meet.

Live I or die, by you my love is sent;

And you’re my pawns, or else my testament.