Classic Poem

Dread Sir, so late my gentle Friend,
This pacifying Scroll I send,
To let you know your Last is come,
Wrote by the Beat of warlike Drum;
Which breaths in one indignant Page,
From Flandria 's Shore your burning Rage:
And seems, because your Sword's in hand,
Resolv'd t'extend your fell Command.
Thus, when you're drawn, like Bullies, you
Employ your Wrath on Friend or Foe:
And finding that your Troops will soon
Make the Dutch Horse before 'em run,
You for new Quarrels now lay in,
And sheath the Sword to draw your Pen;
Which as unjustly too you wield,
As Heroes do the Sword in Field.
Glory's the Word, and wrong or right,
Your Resolutions are to fight,
Nay, tho' my Pen has long ago,
Submitted both to yours and you,
And tho' I do whate'er you will,
You seek new Quarrels with me still;
Treating me thus, you act (I find)
As Heroes have Time out of Mind;
Shewing that Justice and the bold
Can no fair Correspondence hold,
Or Honour Reason e'er afford,
But what's the Reason of the Sword.
So that whene'er you please to shew
Your Anger rising on your Brow,
Friendship must from that Moment cease,
And letters turn to Challenges.
But I, who now have dropt the Fashion
Of taking such an Invitation,
Whom Age and shrinking Nerves have made
No longer of the fighting Trade,
Like other Cowards cannot be
Wrought to resent an Injury;
But, in whatever Terms you send,
Must still subscribe my self your Friend.