University of Virginia Library

A POETICAL ANSWER, &c

O son of wicked Satan, with a soul
Hot as his hell, and blacker than his coal!
Thou false, thou foul-mouth'd cens'rer of the times,
I do not care three straws for all thy rhimes.
Thy wit is blunter than old worn-out sheers:—
I'll make a riddle with thee for thy ears;
Write any sort of verse, thou blust'ring blade!
Egad! I'll say, like Kecksy, ‘Who's afraid?’—
Thank God, I've talk'd to greater folks than thee:
In that I will not yield to any he;
No, not to any he that wears a head—
Again I'll say, like Kecksy, ‘Who's afraid?’—
Thank God, whene'er I wish like kings to fare,
I go, unask'd, and dine with my lord may'r.
But thou, who asks thee, varlet! to their houses?
Fear'd by the husbands, dreaded by the spouses.
May God Almighty hear what now I speak!—
Some aldermen would gladly break thy neck.
Thou tell'st us thou hast struck thy lyre to kings—
Yes, faith, and sounded very pretty things.
Thou blockhead, thou pretend to think thy rhimes
Shall live to see the days of after-times.
Fool, to pretend on subjects great to shine,
Or e'en to printers' dev'ls to tune the line!
Sir, let me humbly beg you to be civil—
Thou know'st not that I was a printer's dev'l:
So, sir, your satire wants the pow'r to drub,
In thus comparing Nichols to a grub.
Whate'er thou say'st, I'm not of vengeance full,
Nor did I ever bellow like a bull:
And grant I am a bull, I sha'nt suppose
A cur like thee can nail me by the nose.
Thou liest when thou sayest, like a top,
With anger rais'd, I spinn'd about my shop:
Nor did I ever, madden'd by thy stripes,
Thou prince of liars, kick about my types.
Books have I written; books I still will write,
And give, I hope, to gentlefolks delight:
With charming print, and copper-plates so fine,
Whose magazine goes off so well as mine?
Who, pray, like me, the page so fond of filling?
Who gives more curious matter for a shilling?
England's first geniuses I keep in pay;
Much prose I buy, and many a poet's lay:
The silk-worm Hayley spins me heaps of verse,
And Gough, antiquities exceeding scarce:
Great Horace Walpole too, with sweet good-will,
Sends me choice anecdotes from Strawb'ry-hill:
Miss Seward, Mistress Yeardsley, and Miss More,
Of lines (dear women!) send me many a score.
These are the nymphs at whom thine envy rails—
Fool! of their gowns not fit to hold the tails—
These are the men, of prose and verse the knights,
With genius flashing, like the northern lights;
These are the men whose works immortal show
The men of literature from top to toe.—
But thou'rt a wen,—a blue, black, bloated tumour,
Without one single grain of wit or humour:
Thy Muse too all so consequential struts,
As if all Helicon were in her guts;—
A fish-drab, a poor, nasty, ragged thing,
Who never dipp'd her muzzle in the spring.
Thou think'st thyself on Pegasus so steady;
But, Peter, thou art mounted on a Neddy:
Or, in the London phrase,—thou Dev'nshire monkey,
Thy Pegasus is nothing but a donkey.
I own, my vanity it well may raise,
To find so many gaping for my praise;
Who send such flatt'ring things as ne'er were seen,
To get well varnish'd in my Magazine:
Indeed I often do indulge the elves,
And suffer authors to commend themselves;
Wits of themselves can write with happiest spirit,
And men are judges of their proper merit.
Lumps have I giv'n them too of beef and pudding,
That helps a hungry genius in its studying;
And humming porter, when their Muse was dry—
For this be glory unto God on high!
And not to me, who did not make the pudding,
Nor beef assisting genius in its studying.
To authors, yes, I've giv'n both boil'd and roast,
And many a time a tankard with a toast—
But God forbid, indeed, that I should boast!
And halfpence too, and sixpences, ecod!
But boast avaunt!—the glory be to God!
To bards, good shoes and stockings I have giv'n—
But not to me the glory, but to Heav'n!
Yes, yes, I see how much it swells thy spleen,
That I'm head master of the Magazine;
Who let no author see the house of Fame,
Before he gets the passport in my name.
Art thou a doctor? Yes of thinning skill;
For thousands have been poison'd by thy pill.
But let my soul be calm:—it shan't be said
I fear thee, O thou monster!—‘Who's afraid?’
What though I know small Latin, and less Greek,
Good sterling English I can write and speak:
Yet thousands, who presume to be my betters,
Can't spell their names, and scarcely know their letters.
Belike, the curious world would hear with joy
What trade I was design'd for when a boy?
‘A barber, or a tailor,’ said my mother—
‘No,’ cried my father, ‘neither one nor t'other;
A soldier, a rough soldier, John shall wander,
Pull down the French, and fight like Alexander.’
But unto letters was I always squinting,
So ask'd my daddy's leave to study printing;
And got myself to uncle Bowyer's shop,
Where, when it pleas'd the Lord that he should drop,
The trade and good-will of the shop was mine:
Where, without vanity, I think I shine;
And where, thank God, in spite of dull abuse,
I'm warm, and married, and can boil my goose.
And had I been to swords and muskets bred,
P'rhaps I had shin'd a Cæsar, or a Swede:
Hadst thou a soldier been, thou sorry mummer,
Thy rank had never rose above a drummer.
How dar'st thou say, that should his Royal Highness.
(A prince renown'd for modesty and shyness)
Be generalissimo of all our forces,
A jack-ass's old back, and not a horse's,
Should carry the good prince into the field,
Whose arm a broomstick, for a staff, should wield,
That very, very broomstick which his wife
Oft us'd to finish matrimonial strife?
Why dost not praise the virtues of the *****,
As great in soul, as noble in her mien,
Whose virtues make the soul of Envy sick,
Strong as her snuff, and as her di'monds thick?—
But wherefore this to Peter do I say?
Owls love the dark, and therefore loath the day.—
The ****, as wise a man as man can be;
The *****, so mild, who cannot kill a flea!
Brave Glo'ster's Highness, and his sober wife,
Who lead the softest, sweetest, calmest life;
Richmond and Leeds, each duke a first-rate star,
One fam'd for politics, and one for war;
The open Hawksb'ry, stranger to all guile,
Who never of a sixpence robb'd our isle:
The modest Pitt, the Joseph of the day,
Who never with lew'd women went astray;
And many others, that I soon could mention,
Are much oblig'd, indeed, to thy invention!
But where's the oak that never feels a blast?
Or sun, at times, that is not overcast?
Alas! ev'n people drest in gold and ermine
May feel at times the bites of nasty vermin:
And when thou dar'st great quality attack,
What art thou but a bug upon its back?
What harm, pray, hath my friend Sir Joseph done,
So good, and yet the subject of thy fun?
Just in his ways to women and to men—
Indeed he swears a little now and then.
Behold, his breakfasts shine with reputation!
His dinners are the wonder of the nation!
With these he treats both commoners and quality,
Who praise, where'er they go, his hospitality:
Ev'n from the north and south, and west and east,
Men send him shell, and butterfly, and beast.
Sir William Hamilton sends gods and mugs;
And, for his feast a sow's most dainty dugs.
And shall such mob as thou, not worth a groat,
Dare pick a hole in such a great man's coat?
Whenever at St. James's he is seen,
Is not he spoke to by the king and queen?
And don't the lords at once about him press,
And, like his sov'reigns, much regard profess?
Tell him they'll come one day to him, and dine,
Behold his rarities, and taste his wine?
Such are the honours, to delight the soul,
On which thy longing eyeballs vainly roll:
Such are the honours that his heart must flatter,
On which thy old dog's mouth in vain may water.
Whether in Dev'nshire thou hast got a house,
I value not three capers of a louse;
Whether in Cornwall thou a house hast got,
And at elections only, boil'st thy pot;
Whether a doctor, devil, or a friar,
I know not—but I know thou art a liar.
Whene'er I die, I hope that I shall read
This honest epitaph upon my head:—
‘Here lies John's body; but his soul is seen
In that fam'd work, the Ge'mman's Magazine:
Brave, yet possess'd of all the softer feelings;
Successful with the Muses in his dealings;
Mild, yet in virtue's cause as quick as tinder—
Who never car'd one f--- for Peter Pindar.’