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To be brief, I never desire to see your Face; and, Sirrah, if you go to the Work-house, it is no Disgrace to me for you to be supported there; and if you Starve in the Streets, I'll never give any thing underhand in your Behalf. If I have any more of your scribling Nonsense I'll break your Head the first Time I set Sight on you.
The Muses aid I craved, they had no will To give to their Detractor any quill, With high disdain, they said they gave no more, Since Sidney had exhausted all their store. They took from me the Scribling pen I had, I to be eas'd of such a task was glad Then to reveng this wrong, themselves engage, And drove me from Parnassus in a rage.
Hear me, ye Scribling Beaus, Why will you in sheer Rhyme, without one stroke | Of Poetry, Ladies just Disdain provoke, | And address Songs to whom you never spoke? | In doleful Hymns for dying Felons fit, Why do you tax their Eyes, and blame their Wit? Unjustly of the Innocent you complain, 'Tis Bulkers give, and Tubs must cure your pain. Why in Lampoons will you your selves revile?
Accordingly in we went, where a parcel of Muddling Muckworms were as busy as so many Rats in an old Cheese Loft; some Going, some Coming, some Scribling, some Talking, some Drinking, some Smoaking, others Jangling: and the whole Room stinking of Tobacco, like a Dutch Scoot or a Boatswain's Cabbin.
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