Classic Poem

Sir,
When I saw you today, as I went with Lord Anglesey,
Lord! said I, who's that person? how awkwardly dangles he!
When whip you trot up, without minding your betters,
To the very coach side, and threaten your letters.

Is the poison and dagger you boast in your jaws, trow?
Are you still in your cart with convitia ex plaustro?
But to scold is your trade, which I soon should be foiled in,
For scolding is just quasi diceres--school-din:
And I think I may say, you could many shillings get,
Were you dressed like a bawd, and sold oysters at Billingsgate.
But coach it or cart it, I'd have you know, sirrah,
I'll write, though I am forced to write in a wheelbarrow:
Nay, hector and swagger, you'll still find me staunch,
And you and your cart shall give me carte blanche.
Since you write in a cart, keep it tecta et sarta,
'Tis all you have for 't; 'tis your best Magna Carta;
And I love you so well, as I told you long ago,
That I'll never give my vote for Delenda Cart-ago.

Now you write from your cellar--I still find out your art,
You rhyme, as folks fence, in tierce and carte.
Your ink is your poison, your pen is what not;
Your ink is your drink, your pen is your pot.
To my goddess Melpomene, pride of her sex,
I gave, as you beg, your most humble respects:
The rest of your compliment I dare not tell her,
For she never descends so low as the cellar;
But before you can put yourself under her banners,
She declares from her throne you must learn better manners.

If once in your cellar my Phoebus should shine,
I'll tell you I'd not give a fig for your wine;
So I'll leave him behind, for I certainly know it,
What he ripens above ground, he sours below it.

But why should we fight thus, my partner so dear,
With three hundred and sixty-five poems a year?
Let's quarrel no longer, since Dan and George Rochfort
Will laugh in their sleeves: I can tell you they watch for 't.
Then George will rejoice, and Dan will sing high day:
Hoc Ithacus velit, et magni mercentur Atridae.