Classic Poem

Upon a Bookseller, that expos'd him by Printing a Piece of his
grosly man-gled, and faulty. Christmas 1680 Rygate.

Dull and unthinking! had'st thou none but me
To plague and urge to thine own Infamy?
Had I some tame and sneaking Author bin,
Whose Muse to Love and softness did incline,
Some small Adventurer in Song, that whines
Phyllis and Chloris out in charming lines
Fit to divert mine Hostess, and mislead
The heart of some poor tawdry Waiting-maid;
Perhaps I might have then forgiven thee,
And thou hadst scap'd from my Resentments free.
But I, whom spleen, and manly rage inspire,
Brook no Affront, at each Offence take fire:
Born to chastise the Vices of the Age,
Which Pulpits dare not, nor the very Stage,
Sworn to lash Knaves of all degrees, and spare
None of the kind, however great they are:
Satyr's my only Province and delight,
For whose dear sake alone I've vow'd to write:
For this I seek Occasions, court Abuse,
To shew my Parts, and signalize my Muse:
Fond of a quarrel as young Bullies are
To make their mettle and their skill appear.
And didst thou think, I would a Wrong acquit,
That touch'd my tenderst part of Honour, Wit?
No Villain, may my Sins ne're pardon'd be
By Heav'n it self, if ere I pardon thee.
Members from breach of Priviledge deterr
By threatning Topham and a Messenger:
Scroggs and the Brothers of the Coif oppose
The force and dint, of Statutes and the Laws:
Strumpets of Bilinsgate redress their wrongs
By the sole Noise and foulness of their Tongues:
And I go always arm'd for my defence,
To punish and revenge an Insolence:
I wear my Pen, as others do their Sword,
To each affronting Sot, I meet, the word
Is satisfaction; strait to Thrusts I go
And pointed Satyr runs him thro and thro.
Perhaps thou hop'dst that thy Obscurity
Should be thy safeguard, and secure thee free:
No, Wretch, I mean from thence to fetch thee out,
Like sentenc'd Felons to be drag'd about.
Torn, mangled, and expos'd to scorn and shame
I mean to hang and gibbet up thy Name:
If thou to live in Satyr so much thirst;
Enjoy thy Wish and Fame, till Envy burst,
Renown'd as he, whom banish'd Ovid curst,
Or he, whom old Archilochus so stung
In Verse, that he for shame and madness hung:
Deathless in Infamy do thou so live,
And let my Rage like his to Halters drive.
Thou thoughtst perhaps my Gaul was spent and gone
My Venom drain'd, and I a sensless Drone:
Thou thoughtst I had no Curses left in store,
But to thy sorrow know and find, I've more:
More, and more dreadful yet, able to scare
Like Hell, and urge to Daggers and Despair:
Such, thou shalt feel, are still reserv'd by me
To vex and force thee to thy Destiny:
Since thou hast brav'd my Vengeance thus, prepare
And tremble from my Pen thy Doom to hear.
Thou, who with spurious Nonsence durst profane
The genuin Issue of a Poet's brain,
May'st thou hereafter never deal in Verse,
But what hoarse Bellmen in their Walks rehearse,
Or Smithfield Audience sung on Crickets hears.
Mayst thou print Howard, or some duller Ass,
Jordan , or Him, that wrote Dutch Hudibrass ,
Or next vile Scribler of the House, whose Play
Will scarce for Candles and their Snuffing pay.
May you each other curse; thy self undone,
And He the laughing-stock of all the Town.
Mayst thou ne'er rise to History, but what
Poor Grubstreet penny Chronicles relate,
Memoirs of Tyburn and the mournful state
Of Cutpurses in Holborn Cavalcade,
Till thou thy self be the same Subject made.
Compell'd by want, mayst thou print Popery,
For which be the Cart's Arse and Pillory
Turnips and rotten Eggs thy Destiny,
Maul'd worse than Reading, Christian , or Cellier ,
Till thou dawb'd ore with loathsom filth appear
Like Brat of some vile Drab, in Privy found,
Which there has layn three months in Ordure drown'd.
The Plague of Poets, Rags and Poverty,
Debts, Writs, Arrests, and Serjeants light on thee;
For others bound, mayst thou to Durance go,
Condemn'd to Scraps and begging with a Shoe.
And mayst thou never from the Goal get free,
Till thou swear out thy self by Perjury.
Forlorn, abandon'd, pittyless, and poor
As a pawn'd Cullie, or a mortgag'd Whore,
Mayst thou an Halter want for thy redress,
Forc'd to steal hemp to end thy miseries,
And damn thy self to balk the Hangman's Fees:
And may no sawcy Fool have better fate
That dares pull down the vengeance of my Hate.