Classic Poem

D ear Kinsman , whilst thy Fancy teems
With flow'ry Vales, and murm'ring Stream,
And all those tender Images,
Which idle Bards and Lovers please,
Courting the Muses Bondage tamely,
You quite forget your Promise, — namely,
That ere your Patron Phaebus' Rays
Had measur'd out three Summer's Days,
Infallibly you'd come and see me,
And tope a Can of Liquor wi'me.

Let this Remonstrance be a Spur
To urge you to Performance, Sir;
And do not give me scope to rail;
For should you still unkindly fail
And by Neglect encrease Abuses,
I'll write a Satire on your Muses;
With pointed Darts your Flights I'll follow,
And wrest the Lyre from young Apollo .

Written in Answer .

True, I agreed, dear angry Man ,
To meet, and quaff a social Can,
And what I love myself t'amuse with,
Is a good Friend to chat and booze with;
Yet since, with threaten'd Castigation,
You sour the Cream of Invitation,
(The keen Revenge of Satire boasting,)
And mean to give my Muse a Roasting,
If in your Quarters soon you get me,
I'll give you leave to roast and eat me .
— Cause I've a simple Promise slip'd,
Lack! how you're nettled, frump'd and hipp'd:
You threaten too, (you'll miss your Aim)
To seize my Lyre, and brand my Fame:
Plain Felony! and gross Detraction!
Look to't — — your Words will bear an Action.
Ah Friend! cou'd you be so absurd
To thing a Bard shou'd mind his Word?
A Bard? — O stupid Contradiction!
I thought you better vers'd in Fiction.
Your Ignorance deserves Derision —
Man! have you read Quevedo 's Vision?

Sure dipt in Vinegar your Pen is,
You ape the very Air of Dennis .
Bad Master, Jack! to copy from.
Jack! — Zooks! you're grown a whipping Tom .
I scorn your Threats, your pointed Dart,
You satirize my Muse? — You f — t.
Say, if you please, my Verse is flat, Sir,
Or I'm a Dunce — a Fig for that, Sir.
Dan POPE , to baffle you with Shame,
Has rais'd to Dignity the Name,
Do all you can, write all you will,
I'll blunt the Malice of your Quill.
I'll sing, smile, whistle, dance, perplex you,
And try a thousand Pranks to vex you.
D'ye think I'de come as far as St John 's,
Wear out both Soles, and have no Vengeance?
Death, Jack! I'd not for you , nor ten Johns .

Well, not to give Resentment way,
I'll come d'ye see — come! — no, I'll stay.
Stay! — yes, and then you'll think I'm dumb
Quite quell'd and silenc'd — no, I'll come;
On Monday; Pastime's cheery Season,
When Garret Captives break their Prison;
Close-stow'd at Preston 's, lull their Cares,
With baited Bulls, and roaring Bears:
And, from suburbian Stalls Translators ,
Play loose, and swill like Alligators;
Neglect for Nine-Pins many a Muse,
Nor fit Poetic Feet with Shoes;
Or stroll to Tyburn 's dirty Regions,
To view poor carted, sad Tragedians,
Where Ruffian Ketch , Adept profound,
To hopeful Pupils gather'd round,
Shews himself skill'd to rear a Scholar,
Rope-Dances teaching — — by the Collar.
(Where, by Digression, from my Road
Am I elaps'd in Episode?)
That very Day of all the Six,
Once more, for meeting I prefix;
Pleas'd both, we 'll chat and rest our Ar — s,
Read News, or make extemp're Verses:
But if Chagrin, and sour Ill-nature,
Unsheath, and whet your Edge for Satire,
E'en take your Course, hack, rant, disturb on,
I'll smoke and laugh with honest Urban .