On a pretended Schollar

HA! then 'tis Time! affronted Muse begin!
Rouse each ill-natur'd sleeping Thought within:
Purse thy dark Brow! thy trembling Sinews strain,
And swell the angry blood in ev'ry Vein!
Has Fortune dragg'd thy Vengeance from her Throne,
Crusht out thy wonted Sting, and call'd thee Drone?
No! here's a Pen do's manly spite revive,
Jogs me, and lets me know my Soul's alive;
And tells the wretch that urg'd a Poets frown,
He has rouz'd a Lion that will rend him down.
Was I so easie grown, so tame a Tool!
Had fate the power to cramp me into Fool?
That this to me? and was my Stock so low,
I must for scrapps of Wit a Mumping go?
What! Thief at second hand! doubly the world abuse,
And robb that Spittle of thy hungry Muse!
Since one good turn another do's require,
Industrious Hackney these shall be thy Hire:
This Load of Curses which would make thee crack,
Tho' vampt with Porters, or with Camels back.
What Colledge Sir? where took you your Degree?
Bridewell or Bedlam—University?
No doubt thou there wert bless't with due applause,
For decent beating Hemp, and picking Straws;
In one of them (you see I dont collogue
With Friends) commencing Fool, in to'ther Rogue;
But ah! at last the better party fail'd;
The Fool went down, the Rampant Rogue prevail'd.
Long thou in Bridewell with fell fate didst wrastle,
Like Hudibras, lock't in enchanted Castle;
What Devil against the Gates a Whirlwind hurl'd,
And let thee out agen to Plague the World?
Of old ye out-ran the Constable, 'tis true,
But sure my Verse can run as fast as you:
What tho' unknown? I dare thy shade arraign,
For Poets are not Prophets call'd in vain:
Here take this Pass e're we for ever part,
Then run, and then Farewell with all my Heart.
The Poets pride, and Beggery, and Lies,
The Cit kind Wife, and fear, and avarice:
The Lawyers yelling in their feign'd debate,
And the fleec'd Clients wisdom all too late;
The keeping Cully's Jealousie, and Care;
The slighted Lovers Maggots, and Despair;
A Womans Body every day to dress,
A fickle Soul, little as theirs, or less.
The Courtiers Business, th' Impudence 'o'th' stage,
And the Defeated Politicians rage;
A Clock-work Spouse, with loud eternal Clack,
A Shop i'th' Change, still damn'd to What d'ye lack!
Worse than these Last, if any Curses more,
Ovid e're knew, or fiercer Oldhams store:
Till not one part in Body, or Soul be free,
May all their barbed Vengeance shower on Thee;
Press't with their weight long mayst thou raving lye,
Envying an Halter but not dare to dye,
And when condemn'd thou dost thy Clergy plead,
Some frightful Fiend deny thee power to Read.
Madness, Despair, Confusion, Rage, and Shame,
Attend you to the place from whence you came;
To Tyburn thee let Carrion Horses draw,
In jolting Cart without so much as Straw.
Jaded may they lie down i'th' road, and tir'd,
And, (worse than one fair hanging) twice be mir'd:
Mayst thou be maul'd with Pulchers Sextos Sermon,
Till thou roar out For Hemp sake drive on Carman!
Pelted, and curst i'th' road by every one,
E'ne to be Hang'd mayst thou the Gauntlet run!
Not one good Woman who in Conscience can
Cry out—'Tis pity Troth—a proper Man!
Stupid and dull mayst thou rub off like Hone
Without an open, or a smother'd Groan.
May the Knot miss the place, and fitted be
To plague, and torture, not deliver thee!
Be half-a-day a dying thus, and then
Revive like Savage to be hang'd agen!
In pity now thou shalt no longer live,
For when thus satisfi'd, I can forgive.