  The labouring bee, when his sharp sting is gone, Forgets his golden work, and turns a drone: Such is a satire, when you take away That rage, in which his noble vigour lay. What gain you, by not suffering him to teaze ye? He neither can offend you now, nor please ye. } {The honey-bag, and venom, lay so near, {That both together you resolved to tear; {And lost your pleasure, to secure your fear. How can he show his manhood, if you bind him To box, like boys, with one hand tied behind him? This is plain levelling of wit; in which The poor has all the advantage, not the rich. The blockhead stands excused, for wanting sense; And wits turn blockheads in their own defence. Yet, though the stage's traffic is undone, Still Julian's Though satire on the theatre you smother, Yet, in lampoons, you libel one another. The first produces, still, a second jig; You whip them out, like school-boys, till they gig; And with the same success, our readers guess, For every one still dwindles to a less And much good malice is so meanly drest, That we would laugh, but cannot find the jest. If no advice your rhyming rage can stay, Let not the ladies suffer in the fray: Their tender sex is privileged from war; 'Tis not like knights, to draw upon the fair. What fame expect you from so mean a prize? We wear no murdering weapons, but our eyes. } {Our sex, you know, was after yours designed; {The last perfection of the Maker's mind: {Heaven drew out all the gold for us, and left your dross behind. Beauty, for valour's best reward, he chose; Peace, after war; and, after toil, repose. } {Hence, ye profane, excluded from our sights; {And, charmed by day with honour's vain delights, {Go, make your best of solitary nights. Recant betimes, 'tis prudence to submit; Our sex is still your over-match in wit: We never fail, with new, successful arts, To make fine fools of you, and all your parts. |
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