who hastened their impression, it is deferred for
some little time, and will be printed by itself. Most men are
already of opinion, that neither of the pamphlets deserve an answer,
because they are stuffed with open falsities, and sometimes
contradict each other; but, for once, they shall have a day or two
thrown away upon them, though I break an old custom for their sakes,
which was,--to scorn them."

The resolution, thus announced, did not give universal satisfaction to
our author's friends; one of whom published the following
remonstrance, which contains some good sense, in very indifferent
poetry:

_An Epode to his worthy Friend_ JOHN DRYDEN, _to advise him not to
answer two malicious Pamphlets against his Tragedy called_ "The
Duke of Guise." (_Marked by Luttrel, 10 March, 1683/4._)

Can angry frowns rest on thy noble brow
For trivial things;
Or, can a stream of muddy water flow
From the Muses' springs;
Or great Apollo bend his vengeful bow
'Gainst popular stings?
Desist thy passion then; do not engage
Thyself against the wittols of the age.

Should we by stiff Tom Thimble's faction fall,
Lord, with what noise
The Coffee throats would bellow, and the Ball
O' the Change rejoice,
And with the company of Pinner's Hall
Lift up their voice!
Once the head's gone, the good cause is secure;
The members cannot long resist our power.

Crop 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 they're:
Consider them as in their proper kind,
'Tween 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 them 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,
Condemn