To Dr. K

Doctor, I have been out of town, or This packet would have reach'd you sooner. Prithee pull off your mask; for no man Should injure that dear creature, woman. In Beatrice you give a handle To fix on the dear sex a scandal. What lady would take up goose quill in Defence of such a slanderous villain? At the word Fame you closely nibble, And strive, by jesuitic quibble, T' explain away an obvious meaning; (An art that Ken was always keen in.) Thus a Solicitor, who daily Attends the sessions at Old Bailey, In fraud deep skill'd, to law a nuisance, Will catch a word, pervert its true sense, To save a thorough-pac'd, and callous Offender from his due—the gallows. You tax as false what I relate "Of Falstaff's Wedding, and its fate." But will a Kenrick's ipse dixit Blast my report, and falsehood fix it? No, Doctor; he that knows us both, Will trust my word before your oath. The Comedy (howe'er you laud it) I told you was not much applauded. Many can witness my assertion Is truth; not envy, nor aspersion. Love's friends and your's were all agreed in The celebration of Jack's Wedding; Or possibly the critic clans Had stepp'd in—to forbid the bans. If on the town again you'd push'd it Another audience might have crush'd it— That play, whose only merit lies In imitation, scarce can rise. You rail at Bick—with all my heart: Think you I mean to take his part? Think you I would one distich write T'exculpate a vile s—e? No, on him let thy rage be hurl'd: No—lash him naked thro' the world: Expose in satire's keenest lays This skulking, damn'd, detested race. Hang up to publick scorn each brute Who dares Love's rites to prostitute: But never tax, in prose or rhyme, The guiltless with so black a crime. Your hints to celebrated Garry Seem useless and unnecessary. Davy is— what?—a man of prudence: Now mark what comment I obtrude-hence— He would deserve a cane, or thicker staff, To favour in futuro Bickerstaff: For should a brat the town be sibb'd on, Father'd by Paul, compil'd by Dibden, The secret could he hope to smother? No; it would out some time or other: Then hey! what havock, rage and fury, Would reign tumultuous at old Drury! Down go the boxes! up the benches!— The scenes are fir'd!—how great the stench is— By h—! each British fair would fly out, And eager join the general riot: Wives, widows, maids, turn warlike Knights, T' avenge their broken Bill of Rights. 'Twere just; for sure no back-door cub, like Vile Bick, should profit by the public. Doctor, I mean this rhyming letter The last for which you'll be my debtor. In friendship's name I therefore crave you To make it up with injur'd Davy. Your heart of envious spleen a mass call, And own yourself a sland'rous rascal. Speak truth for once, and shame the Devil— Shame, my old Friend? 'twould be uncivil! Pho! he'll excuse you on that score; You never made him blush before. You think I'm Drury's stage-director. Upon my honour, mere conjecture! I've put on Benedick's disguise, To be conceal'd from critic spies; And Garrick knows no more than Bick, Or Ken, the name of