Written at Bath to a young Lady, who had just before given me a short Answer.

You us'd me ill, and I withdrew,
 Intent on satirizing you. 
The Muses to my Aid I call;
 They came; and told me, one and all,
 That I mistook their Province quite,
 They never sully'd what was bright;
 And said, If Satire was my Aim,
 I ought to chuse another Theme. 

I heard with Anger, and Surprize;
 Begg'd they'd inspire, and not advise. 
In vain I begg'd — they all withdrew;
 When to my Aid a Phantom flew,
 And vow'd she'd give my Satire Stings,
 And whisper'd some resentful Things —
 Said, You delighted, all your Days,
 To torture her a thousand Ways:
 Bid me revenge her Cause, and mine,
 And blacken you in ev'ry Line. 

This I resolv'd; but still in vain —
 We both must unreveng'd remain:
 For I, alas! remember now,
 I long ago had made a Vow,
 That, should the Nine their Aid refuse,
 Envy should never be my Muse.