[189] Freneau signed these lines as they appeared in the _Journal_ "A FOE TO MALICE."
_Quid immerentes hospites vexas, canis Ignavus adversum lupos? Quin huc inanes, si potes, vertis minas, Et me remorsurum petis?--_ --Hor. _Epod._ 10.
Base as they are, this rancorous royal crew[192] Seem baser still, when they are praised by you. By you adorned in regal garb they shine, Sweat through your verse, and stink in every line. True child of folly--eldest of her tribe-- How could you dream that you were worth a bribe.-- Ill-fated scribbler, with a pointless quill, Retract the threat you dare not to fulfil: Round your own neck the wythe or halter twine, And be the science of a hangman thine:--[193] Have we from you purloined one shred of wit, Or did we imitate one line you writ? Peace to your verse!--we do not rob the dead, The clay-cold offspring of a brazen head. Doctor! retire! what madness would it be To point artillery at a mite like thee?-- Such noxious vermin clambering from their shell, By squibs and crackers might be killed as well. But, if you must torment the world with rhymes, (Perhaps you came to curse us for our crimes) In sleepy odes indulge your smoky wit, Pindarics would your happy genius fit-- With your coarse white-wash daub some miscreant's face, Puppies advanced, or traitors in disgrace:[194] To gain immense renown we leave you free, Go, scratch and scribble, uncontrouled by me:-- Haste to the realms of nonsense and despair-- The ghosts of murdered rhymes will meet you there; Like rattling chains provoke unceasing fears, And with eternal jinglings--stun your ears.
[190] This poem appeared in the _Journal_, September 4, 1782, in answer to the following, which had been published in the _Gazetteer_, August 31, 1782:
"MR. OSWALD: _Please give the following Lines, addressed to the_ Foe to Malice, _a Place in your useful Paper; in order to convince this great_ Poet (_who never borrowed a Line in his Life_) _how easy it is to take his Battery, and turn it against himself_. A FOE TO TYRANTS.
"When in the Bark, the unskilful Pilot raves, And lets her drive amidst conflicting waves; The free-born Landsmen rous'd, complain, and cry. What Pilot's this, on whom we can't rely? We're wreck'd, undone, and driven on the shore, Unless you quit the helm, and steer no more. The Pilot, conscious of the mischief done, Not knowing what to do, or where to run, Lurks to his hole, astonish'd and aghast, Dreading the moment that must be his last. The tempest o'er--his terrors also fled, Once more upon the deck he shews his head, At once grown brave, he tells the people too, He did for them, whatever man could do. But cease thy boasting--Freemen all will think, A Bark thus manag'd, in the deep must sink.