TO THAT MOST LAMENTABLE AND MOST Incorrigible Scribbler BAVIUS.  

UNlucky Wretch, whom no Advice can Warn  
From Rhyming of thyself to public Scorn:  
Cursed at thy Birth! And doomed for all the rest:  
Of thy strange Life, one everlasting Jest.  
What Dog-Star Reigned at thy Nativity  
And Damned thee to an Itch of Poetry:  
Thou wert excused, couldst thou but Writ so well,  
To Earn ten Groats for Dogrill at Snow-hill;  
Such little Helps thy Poverty does need;  
This would supply thee with oft wanted Bread:  
And of thy Ghastly Phiz, and Loc'rum Jaws,  
'Tis Evident that Hunger is the Cause.  
But fatal Wretch shouldst thou till Doomsday Writ,  
'Tis so below all aim at Sense or Wit,  
Thou couldst not get one Friendly Shilling by't.  
But this last Piece, to thy immortal Shame  
A hardened Blockhead has confirmed thy Name:  
And for dull Nonsense Celebrates thy Fame.   

Methinks I see the Posture thou wert in  
When this well mannered Stuff thou didst begin:  
When to thy Pencive Garret thou art come, 
He lies in a Garret at Whitehall.   
To do thy Necessary Jobs at home:  
By Solitary Inch of Candle placed,  
Thy Stoken neatly fitted to the Last;  
Thy Right-hand managing the Needle well, 
Footing his Stockings.   
Till Nonsense flows, than takest by turns the Quill.  

Thy double Talon thou at once dost show,  
And Play'st the Poet and the Butcher too:  
So Taylor did at once both Rhym and Row. 
The Water Poet.     

Surely by Nature thou shouldst have some Glimpse,  
Some glimmering Notion of a sort of Sense:  
But Poverty has debaced and dulled thy Strain,  
And Emptiness sent Fumes into thy Brain;  
This makes thee Rail in Language Billingsgate.  
A Wapping Sculler vents more Jests for Wit.  
Where Sense is wanting, truth should be Expressed,  
That oft Atones for Wit and make some Jest:  
But Lies; Dull Lyes in Saucy Fishwives strain,  
Suits 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 Gentle man to write,  
Shows thee as poor in Manners as in Wit.  
Suppose I thee Pickpocket should call,  
Or say thy Mangy Carcase in Whitehall;  
To thy Adjacent Neighbouring Garrateer,  
Were such a Nuisance, as he could not bear;  
(Tho' vilely out of Linen, as we see,  
And Scanty Wardrobe lie in Lombary,)  
Or should I call thee Cheat, or Rogue, and Swear  
('Cause Shabby) thou a Bailiffs-Follower were:  
Would such dull Railing pass upon the Town  
Be took for Wit, Jest, satire, 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 Coxcomb to upbraid my Rhyming  
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 Damned Lines.    

Why should 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 would be ruled,  
Was e'er great Character so Rediculed  
And to complete what thou before had said,  
Two large Long Ears thou'st fixed upon his Head.  
As who to Bavius Politics adheres;  
Deserved to be adorned with Midus Ears.  
Who so Accursed 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 turned 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 With to be,  
The kind Result of all thy Misery:  
Before thou'dst had the Fate to Encounter me.   
Upon a mere suppose to rouse my Muse,  
From her soft Themes of Love to rough Abuse.  
Against my Nature, and below my Sense,  
Deserves I should 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 Shame e   


I'll Swear a hundred since I this began,  
Cried— 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 pity dropped my Angry Quill.    

Printed for the Coffeehouses, 1688.