Poem by Alexander Brome

A Friend

FAin would I find out a friend that is true;
That we may live freely together:
But men are grown false, and friends are but few,
And as fickle in mind as a feather.

That man I suspect, who much zeal does pretend,
And will not our frailties connive at,
His looks and his words are both fram'd to his end;
While some underhand-cheat he does drive at.

He that still laughs in tune, and smiles in my face,
And appears very courteous and civil;
If I trust him but once, I shall find him as base
And perfidious as the Devil.

A man of a niggardly soul I despise,
His Avarice makes him slavish;
For he that his wealth more than honour doth prize,
Will not only be sordid but knavish.

He that soon grows rich from a beggerly life,
Is not for my conversation;
He's as proud as a Presbyter Parson's wife,
Or a new made corporation.

But he that is generous, jolly and wise,
Good natur'd and just to any one,
Such person I love and extol to the skies;
He shall be my friend and companion.

1. The Safe Estate
2. To a Lady that turned her Cheek
3. The Reformation
4. The Pastoral
5. The New Mountebank

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