TO THAT MOST LAMENTABLE AND MOST Incorrigible Scribler BAVIUS.
UNlucky Wretch, whom no Advice can Warn
From Rhiming of thy Self to publick Scorn:
Curst at thy Birth! And doom'd for all the rest:
Of thy strange Life, one everlasting Jest.
What Dog-Star Reign'd at thy Nativity
And Damn'd thee to an Itch of Poetry:
Thou wert excus'd, couldst thou but Write so well,
To Earn ten Groats for Dogrill at Snow-hill;
Such little Helps thy Poverty does need;
This wou'd supply thee with oft wanted Bread:
And of thy Ghastly Phiz, and Loc'rum Jaws,
'Tis Evident that Hungar is the Cause.
But fatal Wretch shou'dst thou till Doomsday Write,
'Tis so below all aime at Sense or Wit,
Thou cou'dst not get one Friendly Shilling by't.
But this last Piece, to thy immortal Shame
A hardn'd Blockhead has confirm'd thy Name:
And for dull Nonsense Celebrates thy Fame.
Methinks I see the Posture thou wert in
When this well maner'd Stuff thou didst begin:
When to thy Pencive Garrat thou art come,
He lyes in a Garrat at Whitehall.
To do thy Necessary Jobbs at home:
By Sollitary Inch of Candle plac'd,
Thy Stoken neatly fitted to the Last;
Thy Right-hand managing the Needle well,
Footing his Stockins.
Till Nonsense flows, then takest by turnes the Quill.
Thy double Talent thou at once dost show,
And Playst the Poet and the Botcher too:
So Taylor did at once both Rhym and Row.
The Water Poet.
Surely by Nature thou shouldst have some Glimpse,
Some glimering Notion of a sort of Sense:
But Poverty has debac'd and dull'd thy Strain,
And Emptiness sent Fumes into thy Brain;
This makes thee Rail in Language Billings-gate.
A Wapping Sculler vents more Jests for Wit.
Where Sense is wanting, truth should be Exprest,
That oft Atones for Wit and make some Jest:
But Lyes; Dull Lyes in Sawcy Fishwives strain,
Sutes only such a Flownder-Mouth as thine.
That Nautious Mouth, from Ear to Ear the extent,
Proper such Beastly Fulsome Stuff to vent,
'Tis Plague enough thy wretched Form to see
Shock not our Ears with Wretched Poetry.
So far below a Gen-tle man to write,
Shows thee as poor in Manners as in Wit.
Suppose I thee Pick-Pocket shou'd call,
Or say thy Mangy Carcass in Whitehall;
To thy Adjacent Neighbouring Garrateer,
Were such a Nusance, as he cou'd not bear;
(Tho' vilely out of Linnen, as we see,
And Scanty Wardrob ly in Lumbardy,)
Or shou'd I call thee Cheat, or Rogue, and Swear
(Cause Shabby) thou a Bailiffs-Follower were:
Wou'd such dull Railing pass upon the Town
Be took for Wit, Jest, Satyr, or Lampoon?
To say a Woman's Old, and call her Whore,
Oh Dire Revenge! Some such dull Fops of yore,
Have Treated thus thy Cheated Wife before.
So vain a Coxcombe to upbraid my Rhiming
Yet set down Self and Help for exact Chiming.
My Muse disdains the servitude of Rhimes,
She Writes true Sense and leaves to Fools the Chimes;
Who have no other Motive for Damn'd Lines.
Why shou'd I think more Breeding to expect,
Than those great Men thy Libel did Detect,
Thou'st yet not made me so Burlesque a thing,
As thy Vile Scandal represents the K—.
To think by thy Advice he wou'd be rul'd,
Was e're great Character so Redicul'd
And to compleat what thou before had said,
Two large Long Ears thou'st fix'd upon his Head.
As who to Bavius Politiques adheres;
Deserv'd to be adorn'd with Midus Eares.
Who so Accurs'd of Heaven, and all his Stars,
To've not one Friend to tell him how he Errs:
Or art thou grown Incorrigable of late,
And turn'd to Fifty, Old and Obstinate.
Was there no Footman that could tell to Ten,
To mend thy for to's, and correct thy Pen.
To common Sense, thy Nonsense to Translate,
And Rescue thee from being Pointed at.
Or find out some Convenient Wyth to be,
The kind Result of all thy Misery:
Before thoudst had the Fate to Encounter me.
Upon a meer suppose to rouse my Muse,
From her soft Theames of Love to rough Abuse.
Against my Nature, and below my Sense,
Deserves I shou'd Chastise thy Impudence:
But thou'rt a Tool, so far beneath my aim,
To touch but on thy Merry Andrew Name;
Gives thine Repute, and brings my Muse a Sham⟨e⟩
I'll Swear a hundred since I this began,
Cry'd—Damn the Buffoon, he's not worth thy Pen;
The Aversion of thy Sex, and Scorn of Men.
This did my Mind with kind Compassion fill,
And I in pitty drop'd my Angry Quill.
Printed for the Coffee-houses, 1688.