The Fourth Volume of the Writings Of the Author of the London-Spy Prose and Verse [by Edward Ward] |
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In Answer to some Anonymous Gentlemen, &c.
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 | The Fourth Volume of the Writings Of the Author of the London-Spy |  |
In Answer to some Anonymous Gentlemen, &c.
Arm my bold Muse, the Cowards bid thee draw,
With pointed Satyr kill, in spite of Law.
Poison with venom'd Ink each Dart you throw,
That e'ery Line may Wit and Malice show.
Sharpen thy Verse till it becomes as keen,
As Female Anger or Fanatick Spleen.
Whet all thy Rhimes to such an Edge and Point,
That they may stab or cleave at least a Joint,
Till e'ery galling Stroak shall make 'em know,
Thou'rt much too brave to fear a dastard Foe,
Who are too Cow'rdly and too Base to try,
A Poet's Pow'r in open Field, but fly,
Like Sheep from Lions, fearing to engage,
And skulk in Holes from thy Poetick Rage.
There Ambuscaded full of Envy wait.
To shoot their spitefull Darts at those they hate.
So fearful Indians from the Christians run,
And hide in Woods our braver Troops to shun;
There, by the Trunks of Lofty Cedars skreen'd,
By Foes unseen, for Victory contend,
And from behind their Trees their poison'd Arrows send
With pointed Satyr kill, in spite of Law.
Poison with venom'd Ink each Dart you throw,
That e'ery Line may Wit and Malice show.
Sharpen thy Verse till it becomes as keen,
As Female Anger or Fanatick Spleen.
191
That they may stab or cleave at least a Joint,
Till e'ery galling Stroak shall make 'em know,
Thou'rt much too brave to fear a dastard Foe,
Who are too Cow'rdly and too Base to try,
A Poet's Pow'r in open Field, but fly,
Like Sheep from Lions, fearing to engage,
And skulk in Holes from thy Poetick Rage.
There Ambuscaded full of Envy wait.
To shoot their spitefull Darts at those they hate.
So fearful Indians from the Christians run,
And hide in Woods our braver Troops to shun;
There, by the Trunks of Lofty Cedars skreen'd,
By Foes unseen, for Victory contend,
And from behind their Trees their poison'd Arrows send
Advance ye Coward, whosoe'er you be,
That I your pale and envious Looks may see,
And sit not safe in Armour and at Ease,
From danger free, and wound me as you please.
Perhaps you're fortifi'd with Pow'r and Wealth,
Got by base means as scandalous as stealth,
And fear in Satyr's Looking-Glass to see
Your Rise, your Actions and your Pedigree,
Lest to the wondring World you should appear,
A new found Monster in your Character,
Like some strange Species gotten in a Rape,
Committed by some Fox upon an Ape,
Or like an Ass made scandalously vain,
By being tagg'd and shagg'd with Lions Tale and Mane.
That I your pale and envious Looks may see,
And sit not safe in Armour and at Ease,
From danger free, and wound me as you please.
192
Got by base means as scandalous as stealth,
And fear in Satyr's Looking-Glass to see
Your Rise, your Actions and your Pedigree,
Lest to the wondring World you should appear,
A new found Monster in your Character,
Like some strange Species gotten in a Rape,
Committed by some Fox upon an Ape,
Or like an Ass made scandalously vain,
By being tagg'd and shagg'd with Lions Tale and Mane.
What if you're Rich and Great, I've Wings to flie,
And Pow'r to reach you tho you're ne'er so high.
But 'tis unfair to sit aloft unknown,
And dart unseen your pointed Weapons down;
So spiteful Tailors from their Garrets throw
Piss-pots upon their Heads that walk below.
Let me but know your Person or your Name,
Your Wondrous Merits, or at least your Fame,
Or that Cabal that helps you to indite,
By Vertue of whose Brains you Rime and Write,
And where you meet to cherish and exalt
Your drooping fancies over Hops and Malt.
Then if I find your Valour or your Wit,
For the soft Strains of Panegyrick fit,
I'll skim my barren Genius for the Cream,
And make your Vertues my illustr'ous Theme.
But if I find you scandalous and dull,
Starving, ill-natur'd and of Envy full.
Then shall my old Satiric Mistress frown,
And sing your Follies thro the List'ning Town,
Despise your Malice, your Abuses scorn,
And make the Dregs of Fancy serve your Turn,
Whilst your own Flatt'ries shall become the Sport
Of the most Worthy of the British Court.
Who when perhaps you've taken three Months Pains,
Glean'd from your Shelves, and wrack'd your own dull Brains,
May after all your humble Bows are made,
Order some brawny Slave to break your Head,
And think so damn'd an Author very nobly paid
And Pow'r to reach you tho you're ne'er so high.
But 'tis unfair to sit aloft unknown,
And dart unseen your pointed Weapons down;
So spiteful Tailors from their Garrets throw
Piss-pots upon their Heads that walk below.
Let me but know your Person or your Name,
Your Wondrous Merits, or at least your Fame,
Or that Cabal that helps you to indite,
By Vertue of whose Brains you Rime and Write,
193
Your drooping fancies over Hops and Malt.
Then if I find your Valour or your Wit,
For the soft Strains of Panegyrick fit,
I'll skim my barren Genius for the Cream,
And make your Vertues my illustr'ous Theme.
But if I find you scandalous and dull,
Starving, ill-natur'd and of Envy full.
Then shall my old Satiric Mistress frown,
And sing your Follies thro the List'ning Town,
Despise your Malice, your Abuses scorn,
And make the Dregs of Fancy serve your Turn,
Whilst your own Flatt'ries shall become the Sport
Of the most Worthy of the British Court.
Who when perhaps you've taken three Months Pains,
Glean'd from your Shelves, and wrack'd your own dull Brains,
May after all your humble Bows are made,
Order some brawny Slave to break your Head,
And think so damn'd an Author very nobly paid
| The Fourth Volume of the Writings Of the Author of the London-Spy | |