Jan. 17, 1735–6.

To steward St John, steward St John's Gate,

Who meets to sup on monday night at eight.

Dear sons of Phoebus, darlings of the nine,

Henceforth, thro’ you, how will the printers shine,

Who ne’er, without the muse, shall meet to sup or dine!

Blessings, say I, attend your rhyming pen,

No king John’s, sure, e’er equal’d saint John's men!

But, tell me, friends, nor blush, nor be afraid

To own the truth—had you no third man's aid?

Speak out, like men—to make the verse run sweeter,

Did not some mild-beer Bellman tag the metre?

If so, I pray, invite the honest fellow,

Let him partake the praise, and make him mellow.

Perpetual stewards, may you voted be;

No less such verse deserves—perpetual poet he!

For me; I’m much concern’d I cannot meet

“At salutation-tavern, Newgate-street.”

Your notice, like your verse (so sweet and short!)

If longer, I’d sincerely thank’d you for’t.

Howe’er, receive my wishes, sons of verse!

May every man who meets, your praise rehearse!

May mirth, as plenty, crown your chearful board,

And ev’ry one part happy—as a lord!

That when at home, (by such sweet verses fir’d)

Your families may think you all inspir’d!

So wishes he, who, pre-ingag’d, can't know

The pleasures that wou’d from your meeting flow.

S.R.