SIR,
Your Billingsgate Muse methinks does begin
With much greater noise than a conjugal din.
A pox of her bawling, her tempora et mores!
What are times now to me? An't I one of the Tories?
You tell me my verses disturb you at prayers;
Oh, ho, Mr. Dean, are you there with your bears?
You pray, I suppose, like a heathen to Phoebus,
To give his assistance to make out my rebus,
Which I don't think so fair; leave it off for the future;
When the combat is equal, this god should be neuter.
I'm now at the tavern where I drink all I can;
To write with more spirit, I'll drink no more Helicon;
For Helicon is water, and water is weak;
'Tis wine on the gross lee that makes your Muse speak.
This I know by her spirit and life, but I think
She's much in the wrong to scold in her drink.
Her damned pointed tongue pierced almost to my heart:
Tell me of a cart — tell me of a — .
I'd have you to tell her on both sides her ears,
If she comes to my house that I'll kick her down stairs.
Then home she shall limping go, squalling out, " Oh, my knee! "
You shall soon have a crutch to buy for your Melpomene.
You may come as her bully, to bluster and swagger;
But my ink is my poison, my pen is my dagger.
Stand off, I desire, and mark what I say to you:
If you come I will make your Apollo shine through you.
Don't think, sir, I fear a Dean, as I would fear a dun;
Which is all at present from yours,