University of Virginia Library

Attacks on me were what I look'd for, Murray,
But why the devil do they badger you?
These godly newspapers seem hot as curry,
But don't, dear Publisher, be in a stew.
They'll be so glad to see you in a flurry—
I mean those canting Quacks of your Review—
They fain would have you all to their own Set;
But never mind them—we're not parted yet.
They surely don't suspect you, Mr. John,
Of being more than accoucheur to Cain;
What mortal ever said you wrote the Don?
I dig the mine—you only fire the train!
But here—why, really, no great lengths I've gone—
Big wigs and buzz were always my disdain—
But my poor shoulders why throw all the guilt on?
There's as much blasphemy, or more, in Milton.

The thing's a drama, not a sermon-book;
Here stands the murderer—that's the old one there
In gown and cassock how would Satan look?
Should Fratricides discourse like Doctor Blair?
The puritanic Milton freedom took,
Which now-a-days would make a bishop stare;
But not to shock the feelings of the age,
I only bring you angels on the stage.
To bully You—yet shrink from battling Me,
Is baseness. Nothing baser stains “The Times,”
While Jeffrey in each catalogue I see,
While no one talks of priestly Playfair's crimes,
While Drummond, at Marseilles, blasphemes with glee,
Why all this row about my harmless rhymes?
Depend on't, Piso, 'tis some private pique
'Mong those that cram your Quarterly with Greek.
If this goes on, I wish you'd plainly tell 'em,
'Twere quite a treat to me to be indicted;
Is it less sin to write such books than sell 'em?
There's muscle!—I'm resolved I'll see you righted.
In me, great Sharpe, in me converte telum!
Come, Doctor Sewell, show you have been knighted.
—On my account you never shall be dunn'd,
The copyright, in part, I will refund.
You may tell all who come into your shop,
You and your Bull-dog both remonstrated;
My Jackall did the same, you hints may drop,
(All which, perhaps, you have already said.)
Just speak the word, I'll fly to be your prop,
They shall not touch a hair, man, in your head.
You're free to print this letter; you're a fool
If you don't send it first to the John Bull.