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. To his Mistress (LAdy you'l wonder when you see)
2. The Damosel
3. Plain Dealing
4. The Wary Woer
5. On the Queens Arrival

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