Written At Bath To A Young Lady

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.