LA MUSE DE CAVALIER, OR, An APOLOGY for such Gentlemen, as make POETRY their Diversion, not their Business. In a LETTER from a Scholar of Mars, to one of Apollo.  
Nou. 10. 1685. This may be Printed, R. L. S.  
LONDON, Printed for Tho. Fox, at the Angel and Star in Westminster-hall. 1685.   

LA MUSE DE CAVALIER.  

DAMON, I'm told the Poets take it ill  
That I am called a Brother of the Quill;  
To end their Jealousy, I quit the Name,  
And tho' I honour a true Poet's Fame,  
Yet, since my Genius points out other Ways,  
And bids me strive for Laurels, not for Bays,  
I'll keep my Heart for Great Bellona's Charms,  
If e'er she takes me to her Glorious Arms,  
She shall Command my Fortune and my Life,  
My Muse is but my Mistress, not my Wife.   

Sometimes, to pass my idle Hours away,  
Or ease at Night the Troubles of the Day,  
Her pleasing Company diverts my Mind,  
And helps my weary Temples to unbind.   

The painful tiler whistles to his Blow,  
And as the rural Virgin milks her Cow,  
Without offence to more accomplished Art,  
An untaught Melody revives her Heart:  
So I, who labour in Life's painful Field,  
With harmless Pleasure strive my Cares to gild;  
Whilst, in wild Notes, my heedless Thoughts I sing,  
And make the Neighbouring Groves and Echoes ring.   

Like those, who paint for Pastime, not for Gain,  
I sit me down upon the spacious Plain,  
And, looking here and there amongst the Throng,  
I take rough sketches, as they pass along;  
Nor Do I follow any other Rules,  
But drawing Knaves like Knaves, and Fools like Fools.   

I grant you, 'tis a Method out of Use,  
But 'tis the best for my unpolished Muse;  
She has not learned to flatter for Applause,  
Or laugh at any Man without a Cause;  
To injure Virtuous Women for a Jest,  
That none may pass for better than the rest:  
Or do like some, who, when they are refused,  
And, for their fond Impertinence, abused,  
Vent their weak Malice in a lewd Lampoon,  
And blast the Lady's Fame to save their own;  
A Fault the Sparks are much addicted to,  
They do't themselves, or pay for those that do.  
My Muse has no Maecenas to admire  
In Raptures high as Thought, and sometimes higher;  
Nor, if she had one, could she make him pass  
For witty, if his Lordship were an Ass;  
Or gilled his darnished Name with, Good and Just,  
If he lived loosely, or betrayed his Trust:  
Nor can she, to oblige a sottish Town,  
Bribe their lewd Fancies for a false Renown,  
By praising Vice, and crying Virtue down.   

This makes some little Critics fume and rage,  
And, in a League, against my Lines engage;  
They are not so concerned for Wit, or Art,  
But 'tis the Truth that slabs 'em to the Heart.  
If stripping Folly of that gay Attire,  
Which Knaves invent, and Fools so much admire,  
I show her naked to the World, that so  
Men by the Aspect, may the Daemon know;  
Some more notorious Fool, that thinks he's hit,  
Cries Z— ds, does he pretend to be a Wit?  
D— me, if e'er I heard such silly stuff,  
There he breaks off: And speaks the rest in Snuff.   

And who is this, so pithy and so short?  
A Countrey-Blockhead, or a Fop at Court?  
Some Heir, whose Father (snatched away by Fate)  
Left the young Spark less Judgement than Estate,  
With nothing: but a modern Education,  
To Hunt, and Hawk, and Whore, for Recreation,  
And Drink, in Honour of his Prince and Nation;  
A Bubble, that has nothing in't but Air,  
Is driven, by every Blast, it knows not where:  
Just such an empty Thing is this young Sot,  
Who talks by Rote, and thinks he knows not what.  
Such Critics I may possibly forgive,  
Because (poor Things) they speak as they believe.   

Or is't a Milksop, that has lived at Court,  
That Glorious School, tho' ne'er the better for't?  
Bred up in fruitless Luxury and Ease,  
Washed and perfumed into a soft Disease,  
That makes him fear the Wind, the Rain, or Sun,  
As bad as some raw Captains do a Gun;  
Who can no Business, but the Ladies, do,  
And that sometimes, I doubt but weakly too:  
The Censure of so visible an Ass  
Won't hurt me much: And therefore let it pass.   

Is it a feeble Scribbler, that pursues  
His own Disgrace by fooling with a Muse?  
Who, in her forced Embraces, vainly strives,  
Like some old Citizens with brisk young Wives.  
But hold— At this (methinks) he cocks his Hat,  
And smiling, says, I love you, Sir, for that,  
You laugh at Faults, which You (Your self) commit,  
Unless y'are lately set up for a Wit.  
No, Child. But what I write is Sense and True,  
And that is more than can be said of you.  
Besides, if I've a Mind to play the Fool,  
(Because, you know, 'tis Modish, and looks cool,)  
You'll own, I may; And so, you'll say, may you,  
By the same Rule. No doubt on't: Prithee do.  
Let me be quiet, and do what you will;  
Write Essays, say fine Things, and Rhyme your fill;  
Make Prologues, Epilogues, Lovesongs, and satire;  
And, at low Ebb of Fancy, turn Translator;  
Disgrace the Theatre with Senseless Farce,  
Or stately Nonsense in Heroic Verse,  
With Plays, that thwart the meaning of the Stage,  
And help not to instruct, but spoil, the Age,  
In which, to turn true Virtue out o' Doors,  
The Hero's all are Sots, the Lady's Whores:  
The Times will bear it, and it is no more  
Than many such as you have done before.  
But meddle not with me; Or, if you must,  
Be sure the Faults you find are very just,  
For if I parry ye, expect a Thrust,   

But if a Satirist in Masquerade,  
Who hides himself, becuse he is afraid,  
Like Murderers, attacks me in the Dark,  
I know not how to deal with such a Spark:  
Yet, if I catch him, I'll his Crimes rehearse,  
And have the Rogue hanged up in Chains of Verse.   

As for the rambling injudicious Wits,  
Who talk all Wethers, and speak Sense by Fits;  
If they should, in my Absence, run me down,  
And to expose my Weakness, show their own:  
Let 'em be quiet, and enjoy their Way;  
They answer to the full, what e'er they say;  
satire upon themselves; They save my Writing;  
And every Thing they say is Devilish biting.   

In short, Each partial Censurer is free  
To play the Fool himself, and laugh at me;  
Let him contrive to carp at what he will;  
Sense will be Sense, and he a Blockhead still.   

And, Damon, since I make this Declaration  
That Poetries my Pleasure, not Vocation,  
You and your Breth'rens ought not to refuse  
Such Pastime to an unpretending Muse.  
The War, you say, 's my Calling. And what then?  
You use a Sword; Why may not I a Pen?  
You give a Soldier leave to eat and drink;  
And, prithee, why not give him leave to think?  
You may indulge with safety all that do,  
There are not many like to trouble you.   

Then let each Party lay their Quarrels by,  
Mind their own Trade, and live in Charity.  
We for an Iron-Harvest will prepare,  
And plow for Honour in the Fields of War:  
While you are taught more safe and gentle ways,  
To purchase an Inheritance of Praise:  
But now and then, to vary for Delight,  
Fight you like Poets, we'll like Soldiers write.    

To the Author OF LA MUSE DE CAVALIER.  
THou sayest thou'rt Mars' Scholar, and 'tis true,  
So far, we own, thoust given thyself thy due;  
For thou art even as much to learn in Fight  
(Tho' thou dost praise thy Writing) as to write.  
Yet thou art angry, that the World thinks fit  
To brand thy Poems with the want of Wit;  
And, in thy Vindication, writ so ill,  
Y'ave given the World fresh Cause to laugh on still.  
Even Bessus has to Courage more Pretence,  
Than you, a Brother of the Quill, to Sense:  
For thou hast hitten every thing so pat,  
No Body knows what 'tis thou wouldst be at.  
Write on then, Friend, carp at the Stage and Court,  
Some Authors were created for our Sport,  
And thou art one— who, with such mighty Pains,  
Hast proved thou hast large Ears, but little Brains.   

To an unknown SCRIBBLER, Who directed a railing Paper to the Author of LA MVSE de CAVALIER, etc.  

EASING my Body, t'other Day,  
Or sh— g, as a Man may say,  
My Footman brought me in your Rhymes  
(How luckily Things hit sometimes!)  
No Posture could have been so fit  
To deal with such a desperate Wit,  
Who is at War with Common Sense,  
And plays the Fool in's own Defence.   

But whilst thou think'st to laugh at me,  
All Men of Judgement smile, to see  
How Nature makes a Jest of Thee,  
In giving thee a Fatal Itch  
To talk of Things above thy Pitch.  
By such weak Spite as Thine, we find  
How Heaven has to the World been kind,  
In tempering the Knave with Fool,  
And making Envious Railers dull.   

Thou sayest, I carp at Court and Stage,  
But thou art blinded with thy Rage,  
I only carp at Sots, like Thee,  
Who are to both an Infamy.  
Thou sayest, I'm vexed, the World thinks fit  
To brand my Verse with want of Wit:  
Because it happens so to Thee,  
Thou fain wouldst turn it upon Me.  
Thy Muse sings hoarse, and out of Time,  
An arrant Billingsgate in Rhyme:  
Therefore, when I had read thy Verse,  
In Answer to't, I wiped—  
And if thy Name thou'lt let me know,  
I'll do so with the Author too.   
FINIS.