A messenger from the Muses never fill’d me with so much transport, as the first sight of your letter; but I had not read six lines, before I wish’d you had never done me that honour. To praise my _Satires_ and fall foul upon my _Lutrin_ (which made me sweat more drops of water, than your drunkard _St. Amant_ (since I must call him so) ever drank of wine) is no favour. After many laborious and fruitless endeavours, finding, to my great grief and distraction, I could not match you in wit, I resolv’d if possible to out-do you in malice, which made me take the liberty of romancing a little on _St. Amant_, falling foul upon people’s characters and manners, and treating several scurvy poets more roughly than you did the _Theseis_ of _Codrus_, when you sang, _Semper ego auditor tantum nunquamne reponam?_ _Vexatus toties rauci Therseide Codri?_ Thus suffering the gall of my heart to flow thro’ the channel of my pen, I procur’d myself enemies in abundance, and since I must confess all to you, some stripes with a bull’s-pizzle, which was a most terrible mortification to my shoulders; but I bore all this with the patience of a philosopher, as will appear by the following lines. _Let_ Codrus _that nauseous pretender to wit,_ _Condemn all my works before courtier and cit;_ _I bear all with patience, whatever he says,_ _And value as little his scandal as praise._ _Vain-glory no longer my genius does fire,_ _’Tis interest alone tunes the strings of my lyre._ _Integrity’s nought but a plausible sham,_ _For money I praise, and for money I damn._ _Old politic bards, for fame have no itching,_ _The_ Apollo _I court, is the steam of a kitchin_.