I Who have been the Poet's Spark to-day,
Will now become the Champion of his Play,
Know all, who wou'd pretend to my good Grace,
I mortally dislike a damning Face.
Plea'd or displeas'd, no matter, now 'tis past;
The first who dares be angry breaths his last:
Who shall presume to doubt my Will and Pleasure,
Him I defie to send his Weapon's Measure:
If War you chuse, and Blood must needs be spilt here,
By Jove, let me alone to match your Tilter,
I'll give you Satisfaction if I can;
'Sdeath, 'tis not the first time I've kill'd my Man.
On Pain of being posted to your Sorrow,
Fail not, at Four, to meet me here To-morrow.