Two to One, in a Letter, needs must be,
As 'tis at Foot-Ball, too much Odds for me;
When two such Wits club to run one Man down,
How shall I hold up against both, alone?
Profuse Town-Sparks, oft come done to us so,
Their Friends, with Honours done 'em, thus undo,
Their Courtesie, but out of Pride to show;
Not so much to show their Friends, their Esteem,
As but to get the more of it from them;
Not so much their Poor, Humble Friends to see,
As seen, and prais'd by Gaping Clowns to be;
Their Friends, for their own Pleasure entertain,
Or Profit, more to get of them again;
Less out of Friendship, than for Vanity,
So but oblige their Friends most selfishly;
To one, I meanly might again return
His Compliment, but to deserve his Scorn;
For Fine Words, which shou'd most think to requite,
Both at once, sure wou'd do less either Right;
Then, as more Favour both have to me shown,
I can return it less to any one;
So Jupiter , and Witty Mercury ,
Show'd Clown Philemon so much Courtesie,
(When him so Low, they Visited from High)
As did confound the Poor, Plain-dealing Swain,
How to make, or return it them again;
Your Store of Sense, Good-Breeding, mine does shame,
So, shou'd I vainly, to return 'em, aim,
My Gratitude wou'd grow my Reason's Blame;
Wou'd less my Sense and Reason to you show,
As more to yours, they Reason thought to do;
You club Wit, not for Want, but Laziness,
Which shows, sure, not your Wit, but Leisure less;
Me, thus at once you shame, and honour now,
By Favours, which I can't return to you,
No Hercules in Wit, can deal with two;
You Both, by sending to me so much Wit,
Give me more Reason, not to answer it;
By Silence best, I answer'd Both, till now,
Which, so much Wit (at least) did to you show,
That I think none, can answer yours, and you;
So you, my Silence cannot call Neglect,
Which shows to you, and your Wit, more Respect,
Than shou'd I, to vie mine with it, affect;
By Silence, Sense and Breeding's understood,
When we can't answer Great Men, as we shou'd;
Then since Both set your Wits against me now,
I've so much Wit, that none I'll to you show,
Which wou'd prove less, thinking to answer you;
Since by your Witty Letter, in my Praise,
Your Compliments, become but my Disgrace;
Who, so much more Wit, praising mine, have shown,
That all Praise, you wou'd give me, grows your own;
Since, giving me so much, you leave me none;
Which Credit iTwou'd do me, does prevent,
Turns, of my Praise, more my Disparagment;
So Town-Wits, like Town-Rooks, together join,
In Praise o'th' Squire, whose Ruine they design;
Praise him, and his Wit, so maliciously,
But to make more his Pride, or Vanity,
Till that their Praise becomes his Infamy;
As Beauties, into Affectation prais'd,
Are, by the Honours done 'em, more disgrac'd.