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' Muse's Springs?  
Or great Apollo bend his Vengeful Bow  
Against popular Stings?  
Desist thy Passion then; do not engage  
Thyself against the Wittols 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 rejoice!  
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 Power.   

Cross not their Humours, let the Wits proceed,  
Till they have thrown  
Their Venom up; and made themselves indeed  
Rare Fops o'ergrown:  
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'll find  
Yourself severe:  
And unto Rashness much more here inclined,  
By far than there.  
Consider them, as in their proper Kind,  
Between 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 Sense,  
'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 Sense will say,  
Their Works can never parallel thy Play.   

'Twere fond to Pamper Spleen, 'cause Owls detest  
The Light of Day;  
Or real Nonsense, which endures no Test,  
Condemns thy Play.  
Lodge not such petty Trifles in thy Breast,  
But bar their sway:  
And let them know, that thy Heroic 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 spite 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 resolved to break your use,  
And basely sin  
In Answer. I'll 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.