Epistle VIII. The Answer

Did I not know thee (friend) and that this fit
Comes not to shew thy malice but thy wit,
I might this action censure, and reprove
As well thy want of judgement, as of love;
And think my Muse, were doubly now forlorn;
Below thy envie, yet not above thy scorn:

But yet I wonder why thy reason thus,
Which thou call'st right, and's magnify'd by us,
And justly too, should vote me indiscreet;
Because my Poems do with all sorts meet,
How can I help it? Who can circumscribe
His words or works, within the small-wise tribe?
And you the hearers kind applause do blame,
When charity bids us all do the same.
If good we must, and if the wit be such,
That it does need, who would not lend a crutch?
Wre mortal Writers, and are forc'd t' a truce,
For he that gives, may well expect abuse.

Johnson and Taylor in their kind were both
Good Wits, who likes one, need not t'other loath.
Wit is like beauty, nature made the Jone
As well's the Lady. We see every one
Meets with a match: Neither can I expect,
Thou more my Muse then Mistress should'st affect;
And yet I like them both, if thou don't too,
Can't you let them alone for those that do?

Now if thou'ldst know the very reason why
I write so oft, to please my self, say I.
I know no more why I write more then thee,
Then why my Father got more sons then me,

Nor pedling call't, for those in Cheap as well,
As they at Fairs expose their wares to sell:
But I give freely mine, and thought it be
To Fidlers, yet 'tis to a company;
And all those gifts are well bestowed, which
At once do make us merry, and them rich.

If making Sonnets were so great a sin,
Repent; 'twas you at first did draw me in:
And if the making one Song be not any,
I can't believe I sin in making many.

But oh! the Themes displease you, you repine,
Because I throw down Women, set up Wine:
Why that offends you, I can see no reason,
Unless 'cause I, not you, commit the treason.
Our judgments jump in both, we both do love
Good Wine and Women; if I disapprove
The slights of some, the matter's understood,
I'm ne'r the less belov'd by th' truly good.
You'ld have no phancy blown upon, but must
Have all new broach'd or can'd to please your gust;
When this demand of yours is grown as old
As what you quarrel at, and as often told;
And ther's old Wits that will as much condemn
Your novelty, as you can censure them.

Now for those robes in which you'l have me dress
My homely Muse, and write with loftiness;
Talk of State-matters, and affairs of Kings;
Thou know'st we've beat our heads about those things,
Till I'd my teeth near beat out, after all
My toyl, the worms must turn poetical.
He that courts others ears, may use designs,
Be coy and costive; but my harmless lines,
If they produce a laughter are well crown'd,
Yet though they've sought none, have acceptance found,
With these I sport my self, and can invite
My self and friends t'a short and sweet delight;
While all our tedious toyls, which we call Playes,
Like the great Ship, lie slugging in their Bayes
And can no service do without great cost
And time, and then our time and stomach's lost,

But I must write no more for fear that we
Be like those brethren in divinity.
Whilst thou dost go to make my flash expire,
I raise thy flame and make it burn much higher:

Only because thou doubt'st I should bestow
Thy lines upon my Fidlers, thou shalt know,
That had they been upon a busines fit,
And were I subject equall to my wit,
T'had gone, and thou shouldst sing them too, and so
Be both the Poet and the Fidler too.