AN EPODE To his worthy Friend Mr. John Dryden, To Advise him not to Answer Two malicious Pamphlets against his Tragedy called, The Duke of Guise.
CAN Angry Frowns rest on thy Noble Brow
For Trivial Things?
Or can a stream of muddy Water flow
From th' Muses Springs?
Or great Apollo bend his Vengeful Bowe
'Gainst popular Stings?
Desist thy Passion then; do not engage
Thy self against the Wittals of the Age.
Should we by stiff Tom Thimbles Faction fall,
Lord! with what noise
The Coffee-Throats would bellow! and the Ball
O'th' Change rejoyce!
And, with the Company of Pinners-hall,
Lift up their Voice!
Once the Head's gone, the Good Cause is secure,
The Members cannot long resist our Pow'r.
Cross not their Humours, let the Wits proceed,
'Till they have thrown
Their Venom up; and made themselves indeed
Rare Fops O'regrown:
Let them on nasty Garbage Prey, and Feed,
Till all is done:
And by thy great resentment think it fit,
To crush their Hopes as humble as their Wit.
Consider the occasion, and you'l find
Your self severe:
And unto Rashness much more here enclin'd,
By far than there.
[Page]Consider them, as in their proper Kind,
'Tween Rage and Fear.
And then the Reason will appear most plain,
A Worm that's trod on will turn back again.
What if they Censure without Brain, or Sence,
'Tis now the fashion:
Each giddy Fop endeavours to commence
A Reformation.
Pardon 'em for their Native Ignorance,
And Brainsick Passion:
For after all, True Men of Sence will say,
Their Works can never parallel thy Play.
'Twere fond to Pamper Spleen, 'cause Owls detest
The Light of Day;
Or real Nonsence, which endures no Test,
Condemns thy Play.
Lodge not such petty Trifles in thy Breast,
But barr their sway:
And let them know, that thy Heroick Bays
Can scorn their Censure, as it doth their Praise.
Think not thy Answer will their Vice reclaim,
Whose Heads are proof
Against all Reason; and in spight of shame,
Will stand aloof.
'Twould cherish farther Libels on thy Fame,
Should those thee move.
Stand firm, my Dryden, Maugre all their Plots;
Thy Bays shall Flourish, when their Ivy Rots.
But if you are resolv'd to break your use,
And basely sin
In Answer. I'le be sworn some Haggard Muse,
Has you in her Gin;
Or in a fit you venture to abuse
Your Polyhimn.
You may serve him so far,—But if you do,
All your true Friends, Sir, will Reflect on you.
FINIS.
LONDON: Printed by I. Grantham, 1683.