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.

To an unknown SCRIBLER, Who directed a railing Paper to the Author of LA MVSE de CAVALIER, &c.

EASING my Body, t'other Day, Or sh—g, as a Man may say, My Foot-man brought me in your Rhymes (How luckily Things hit sometimes!) No Posture could have been so fit To deal with such a desp'rate 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 Judgment 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 Spight as Thine, we find How Heav'n has to the World been kind, In tempering the Knave with Fool, And making Envious Railers dull.

Thou say'st, 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 say'st, I'm vex'd, the World thinks fit To brand my Verse with want of Wit: Because it happens so to Thee, Thou fain would'st turn it upon Me. Thy Muse sings hoarse, and out of Time, An arrant Billings-gate in Rhyme: Therefore, when I had read thy Verse, In Answer to't, I wip'd— And if thy Name thou'lt let me know, I'll do so with the Author too.

FINIS.