I hear Parson Bowles goes about abusing me, relying on my forbearance, or on what he may think his vast capacity for satire. The dirty dog crouches and creeps to Lord Byron, but thinks he may safely attack me. He may find himself mistaken one day or the other. In the meantime, as he is fond of parody, he may have something in that shape which you will find overleaf.
“Should Parson Bowles
yourself or friend compare To some French cut-throat, if you please, Santerre— Or heap, malignant, on your living head The smut and trash he pour’d on Pope when dead, Say what reply—or how with him to deal— Sot without shame and fool that cannot feel? You would not parley with a printers’ hack— You cannot cane him, for his coat is black; Reproof and chastisement are idly spent On one who calls a kick a compliment. Unwhipp’d, then, leave him to lampoon and lie, Safe in his parson’s guise and infamy.” |
